Take the Long Way Home (The Chaos AU - Part 14)
by LindaO
Summary: The Chaos AU version of what happens immediately after 'God Mode'. Root is in government custody. Reese takes Finch to Sin City to recover from his second kidnapping. Joss Carter is left to deal with Elias on her own. And the Machine is deciding who it wants to talk to. Gen, Casefic-ish.
1. Chapter 1

_There is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen. D.H. Lawrence_

* * *

Samantha Groves looked around the empty space as the man at the desk scampered away. The happy fervor fell from her expression, and was replaced by hurt confusion. She looked at Harold. "Where is it?" she demanded.

Finch looked around the vast space, too. "I'm sorry," he answered with quiet satisfaction. "You said you wanted to set the machine free. I already did."

She turned and spoke to the echoing room. "Where are you? Please talk to me." Then she faced Finch again. "You lied to me. I believed you." She glanced over her shoulder to where the Machine had been. "I believed in you."

"Ms. Groves —"

"My name is Root!" She raised her weapon and aimed it at him.

Harold stood very still. He was going to die. He was surprised at how calm he was. There was nothing to fear, he supposed, now that death was inevitable. It was almost a relief. Yes, he would die, but the Machine was safely out of the reach of the government, of Decima, and of Samantha Groves. He wondered if Reese would be able to make sense of it all …

A gunshot echoed through the space.

_That didn't hurt_, Finch thought in surprise. _I didn't feel it at all._ He guessed that it was very serious, the wound so critical that his ability to experience it had been short-circuited by his brain. He guessed that it was likely to be fatal almost immediately.

He watched as Root grabbed her shoulder and sank to the concrete floor. The pain still did not take hold. Dimly, after a long moment, he realized that _she _was the one who had been shot. That made more sense, of course, though he could not quite work out _how_ she had been shot. He turned his head slowly. John Reese and Joss Carter were standing just inside the door. _Ah._ Finally the whole event made sense.

Reese hurried to his side. Detective Carter moved toward the injured woman more slowly, her weapon lowered but still at the ready.

An emotional blanket Finch recognized as shock wrapped around his thoughts. His mind became pleasantly fuzzy.

He was going to live. _Well. That was certainly unexpected. _

Reese touched his arm. "Harold? Are you okay?"

Finch wanted to say something reassuring, but no words came. He nodded.

Carter kicked Root's gun away, then bent to collect it. She looked around the room, then back toward the door they'd come in through.

"Is this what you expected?" John asked.

"It's what I hoped," Finch managed to answer.

"You didn't do this yourself?"

Harold recognized that, beyond his inborn curiosity, his friend was trying to draw him out of his shock. It was a prudent action, and he forced himself to cooperate. "I couldn't. I'd locked myself out." His thoughts sharpened a bit. "The Machine was designed to accept alterations in its programming only as a response to an attack. I knew that sooner or later someone would try to take it over, but I didn't know who. So I made sure that when they did, they'd do it with my code."

"You hid a virus within a virus?"

Finch looked at his kidnapper. She was still huddled on the floor, weeping inconsolably, devastated by her loss. But his own head cleared as he told his partner the truth. "I realized that the people Nathan and I had entrusted the machine to were the wrong people and that the only way to protect it would be to teach it to protect itself." He looked at Carter, and then back at John. "I didn't want to involve you in this business, either of you, because I had hoped that, if I hadn't returned, you would continue what we had started."

Reese gave him a little smirk. "That's not good."

"We should go," Carter said, gesturing towards the entrance.

"She comes too," Finch insisted. "If we leave her, they'll kill her."

"I'm not coming with you!" the fallen woman shrieked. "She'll come for me. She'll save me."

"The Machine?" Finch asked. "It's not here, Miss Groves. And it's not going to save you."

"She'll save me."

Reese cocked his head. "We have to go now." He looked around, then gestured toward the far wall. "There."

Finch couldn't see an exit that way. "Are you sure?"

"The Machine is."

Root looked up sharply. "She's still talking to you?"

Beyond the entrance there was noise, commotion. Boots in the corridor. "Let's go," Reese said, taking Finch's arm.

"Miss Groves …"

"She'll save me. She'll talk to me. I won't leave her."

"Thirty seconds," Reese said tightly. He pulled on Finch's arm.

Harold let himself be pulled across the vast space where the Machine's servers had once stood. He was aware that Carter moved behind them, close, half-sideways, her weapon still at the ready.

Reese pushed at the corner of one of the blank panels, and the secret door swung open silently. The op peered into the opening, then gestured for Carter to go ahead of them. He pushed Finch that way, but Harold paused and looked back. "Miss Groves …"

She turned her head defiantly away.

Reluctantly, Finch stepped through the secret doorway and left her.

He felt more than saw Reese hesitate behind him, with his own weapon in his hand. For one moment he felt how badly his partner wanted to kill the woman. It was understandable. She had caused them both so much grief. But then John pushed the door shut, took his arm again, and hurried him down the narrow corridor.

Harold honestly didn't know whether to feel relief or despair.

* * *

Reese was grateful that the electronic voice in his ear gave him a way out that didn't involve shooting a bunch of government agents. But he was also relieved when the voice finally fell silent.

He far preferred Harold's voice in his ear.

He paused at the exit and considered firing his weapon at Root's unprotected head. It would have been an easy shot, a clean kill. There had been a time when he wouldn't have hesitated. Root had murdered Alicia Corwin and Denton Weeks, and others. She'd kidnapped Harold, twice. She'd aimed missiles at New York City. She'd poisoned countless people with energy drinks, which had resulted in more than a dozen deaths. She'd poisoned Taylor Carter. She'd poisoned John. She'd force Christine to kill a man. Any one of those actions would have been sufficient reason to kill her. Kara Stanton would not have hesitated, and would have likely killed John if she'd know he'd hesitated.

But Stanton was dead, and Reese was not the man he'd been then.

The hacker, their great nemesis, was only a defenseless woman now. She was crying, bleeding, helpless.

Reese let her live.

He pushed the panel closed, wondering how soon he would regret that decision.

Carter took point. Reese followed closely, holding Harold's arm. The genius appeared uninjured and walked on his own, with nothing more than his customary limp, but he seemed dazed, detached. Compliant. The corridor led along the side of the warehouse space and ended in a single emergency exit door. It opened onto a fenced space full of scrubby weeds. The employee parking garage was only twenty yards beyond the battered fence.

John picked an older sedan to steal. He helped Harold into the back seat and had him lie down, then covered his head with his own jacket. But the precautions seemed unnecessary; the guard shack at the side entrance was empty, and the barrier gate swung open as the car approached.

Reese threw a grateful nod to the surveillance camera above the gate and drove out.

* * *

Once they were safely off the base, Carter reached over the seat and helped Finch sit up. He was pale and visibly shaky, but he straightened his glasses and then his tie in a way that was reassuringly Finch-like. "You okay?"

"Yes. Thank you, Detective." He touched his glasses again. "I honestly did not intend for you to become involved in this."

"Well, I could come _with_ him," she answered, nodding toward Reese, "or I could follow the trail of bleeding kneecaps. It seemed easier this way."

"Of course," John said, "it would have been a _lot_ easier if you'd told us where you were going."

"I couldn't," Finch answered. "She threatened Grace."

"Who's Grace?" Carter asked.

He shook his head. "She's safe, for now. I suppose the government really will kill Miss Groves."

Reese shrugged.

"They'll keep her alive until she finds out everything she knows," Carter offered. She wasn't sure if that would be any comfort, but it was obviously true.

"What she knows … can't be of much help to them now."

"Because you moved the Machine?"

"It moved itself."

"To where?"

"I have no idea."

Carter looked past him out the back window. There was no tail evident. Reese would keep watch for one, of course. "But who controls it?"

"As of now," he said flatly, "it controls itself."

Finch seemed very calm about that concept, but Carter felt her own anxiety rising. She'd only barely come to terms with the Machine's existence. The idea that it was entirely self-controlling now …

"The Numbers. The national security numbers, will they keep going to the government?"

"That will be up to the Machine."

"If they don't start up again, the country is defenseless."

"No. Just less well-defended."

"But …" The only thing that had made the idea of the Machine and its constant surveillance acceptable to Carter was her certainty that it was necessary to protect them. And her faith in Finch. "It's … on its own now. Your Machine. Making its own decisions."

"Yes." Finch nodded, just once. "I recognize that that's not a particularly comfortable notion for you, Detective." His voice remained flat, calm. He seemed almost uninterested. Or shocky. "I assure you that I am not entirely comfortable with it, either. But it was unavoidable. The only option was to leave it vulnerable to people like Miss Groves, or Decima, or the government. If they had not attempted to take it over, it would not have been necessary for it to become autonomous."

"Great," Carter managed to answer.

"I am hopeful," Finch added, "that it will continue to fulfill its primary purpose of protecting people. But I have no control over that now."

Carter sighed and settled back in her seat. The setting sun in her eyes made her squint. She glanced at Reese. Of course they were headed west. Even behind his sunglasses his eyes were narrowed against the glare. But that same sunset would also be in the eyes of anyone who attempted to follow them. He could use that to his advantage, if necessary. "What's the plan?"

"Just to drive, for a while," he said. His posture was nearly as stiff as Finch's, and his jaw was a tense line of clenched muscle. "Then we need to split up. The three of us together are too easy to spot."

She nodded. The A.P.B. on the three of them wouldn't need any details at all: Two white males, one black female. Traveling together they'd be much too obvious. She didn't think for a minute that Reese was going to let himself be separated from Finch. "So you're kicking me to the curb, huh?" she teased lightly.

He unclenched his jaw enough to give her crooked half-smile.

"As I recall, Detective," Finch offered from the back seat, "you have a graduation party to be preparing for."

Carter rubbed her neck. In the crisis of Finch's disappearance, she'd forgotten about her son's upcoming graduation, and the ever-growing party that would accompany it. "That's true." She shook her head. "Seems weird to be worried about that, when …" She paused. Finch was right. If the Machine wasn't watching over them anymore, other agencies still were. The C.I.A., D.H.S., F.B.I. – they would have to go back to doing things the hard way, but they were still there. And by now they had to be aware that their source of information had dried up.

She was still deeply uneasy.

Joss looked at John again. He was still watchful, but he was beginning to uncoil. He seemed unconcerned about the new threat presented by the possible absence of the Machine. But then, he'd told her that he'd never completed trusted the supercomputer. He might even be relieved to have it off-line for good.

Neither of the men seemed to have considered the possibility that the newly-freed Machine might actually begin to work _against_ them. But if it was, as Finch said, fully autonomous now, that wasn't outside the realm of possibility. "Damn," she said quietly.

Reese glanced over at her. "It's still got Finch's programming," he said, as if he'd known exactly what she was thinking. "It's out there on its own now, in its own place. It will make its own friends, its own choices. But it has a good solid value system. Good upbringing. It won't go too far astray." He shrugged. "Kinda like Taylor."

"The Machine is not a child," Finch said peevishly. "It's not human."

"No," Carter said, "but we are, and it's easier for us mortals to think of it in those terms."

He grunted. "As you wish."

Carter gave Reese a little rueful smile, and he smiled back. Nothing was settled, and things could still get bad, but Finch was safe and well enough to be snippy. That was enough for now.

It had to be.

* * *

Nick Malone – formerly Nicholas Donnelly – sat up against his headboard, absently massaging the stump of his missing leg and half-watching reruns of some TV show about cops and lawyers. He wasn't interested in it, but it was better than nothing. The judge was pretty, anyhow.

Without the TV, the room was much too silent.

There were no new Numbers in the Den. His co-workers had gone out to dinner. They'd invited him, but he'd begged off, claiming that his leg hurt and he wanted to prop it up for a while. That was true, actually. But Donnelly knew that the source of his pain was his anxiety; his tension caused his missing foot to ache.

He wanted to be alone.

That part was a lie. He didn't want to be alone. He wanted to be with Asena. With the Machine. He wanted to be there when she came back online.

If she ever did.

She had told him it would only be one day. But he wasn't sure if that _day_ was a specific twenty-four hours or something more generic. He wasn't absolutely sure she'd manage to reboot after clearing the virus she'd been afflicted with. He wasn't sure she'd be able to kill the virus at all. And if she could, he wasn't sure she'd still be able to contact him.

Or if she'd want to.

He wasn't sure of anything. And he couldn't do anything about it.

He could only wait.

His laptop was on the bed beside him, idle. The monitor had gone dark. The tiny lights at the edge of the keyboard were the only indicators that it was running.

Asena knew how to reach that computer, or had known, before the virus took her under.

"Watched pots never boil." Donnelly sighed and tried to focus on the television.

His computer remained silent.

* * *

Reese parked the stolen sedan in the parking lot of a strip mall, just across from an Enterprise Rental Car office. Carter got out of the car and stretched. "Sure you don't want me to stay with Finch?" she offered.

Both men got out of the car, too. "I'm sure," Reese answered easily. He'd relaxed to about sixty percent soldier, Carter thought. That was about as unguarded as he ever got in public. "But thanks."

"Yes," Finch added. "Thank you, Detective. I hope I haven't disrupted your plans too badly."

"Disrupted …." Joss almost laughed. She'd dropped everything and chased across the whole country beside a madman – and she'd do it again in a minute. "I'm glad you're okay." She took his arm and squeezed gently. "You're okay, right?"

She looked at John. He nodded, just once, with a wry little smile playing around his lips. The man could say more with a little twist of his lip and a sparkle in his eye than Finch could with all the big words in his impressive vocabulary. She nodded back. "Try to stay out of trouble."

"We always _try_," Reese protested.

"Try harder." She gave Finch's arm one last squeeze, then strode toward the rental office.

By the time she came out, with a car easily booked with her fake ID and matching credit card, the stolen sedan was abandoned and the men were gone.

The detective silently wished her friends Godspeed.


	2. Chapter 2

Reese stole a minivan. He got back on the freeway and headed south. Finch sat silent and stiff in the passenger seat. He had talked to Joss, interacted with her, but now that they were alone, he was deep in his own thoughts again.

John could still see the faintest shadow of the bruise he'd put on Harold's face. Two weeks before, John had lashed out at him when he was crazed by the drugs Root had injected him with, knocked him down, and might have killed him …

He hoped his friend wasn't thinking about trying to rescue her.

He rolled the possibility around in his mind. He wasn't sure which government branch currently had custody of the hacker, but he was sure she would eventually end up in the unloving care of some black intelligence group, some branch more secretive than the C.I.A. She would disappear while she was interrogated, and when they'd learned everything they could from her, she would disappear permanently.

John doubted that he could find out where they'd taken her. He was certain that he couldn't get her out without anything less than an entire Special Forces team. And even if he had a team, the odds that Root would be killed before they could rescue her … he shook his head. He was good, but he wasn't _that_ good. No one was.

Root had made her choice. There was no chance he could rescue her.

Which made the fact that he absolutely didn't _want_ to rescue her just a little easier to accept.

He glanced at Finch. The man's eyes were fixed on the horizon. He held himself very still, as if it hurt him to move at all. It probably did.

No. John did not want to rescue Root.

He put the hacker deliberately out of his thoughts. He had Finch. That's what mattered now. They were not being pursued. He needed to shift out of 'rescue' gear and into 'restore'. Though Finch was not acting like a traumatized hostage, he had in fact been taken, threatened, and forced to do things against his will. Safety was achieved. It was time to provide second tier needs: food, hygiene, and sleep.

Twenty miles from where they'd left Carter, he saw another strip mall off the highway. He steered the stolen van off the exit ramp and drove around the parking lot, getting the lay of the mall. Then he parked outside a sporting goods store. "Dinner," he announced.

Finch didn't even turn his head. "I'm really not hungry, Mr. Reese."

"I am. Come on."

Harold climbed out of the van and followed without question. His compliance bothered John, but he decided to take that as a sign of trust. He led his partner past the candle shop and the woman's clothing store and into the chain steakhouse.

Finch looked askance at the longhorn cattle head mounted over the door, and at the saddles and cheap reproductions of cowboy art that decorated the walls, but he remained silent. The dinner rush was over. Reese asked for a booth in the back corner, and the hostess obligingly seated them there. He managed not to point out the jackelope on the shelf above their table. The hostess offered drinks. John asked for coffee. Finch only wanted water. He glanced at the menu listlessly, then put it down.

"No," Reese said firmly. "You need to eat."

"What passes for meat in a place like this …" Finch shuddered gently.

"Then have the chicken. But we're not leaving until you eat."

Finch exhaled loudly, but he picked up the menu.

Their waitress was friendly and acne-prone, with an enthusiastic bounce to her step. Reese ordered a T-bone, medium rare, and steak fries. Finch, in a clear show of stubbornness, ordered the chicken.

His stubbornness was a relief to John.

The woman bounced away, brought them salads, and bounced away again.

Finch dipped his fork in the dressing and tasted it with the tip of his tongue. It was apparently acceptable, because he took an actual bite of salad, and then another one.

John watched him as he ate his own salad. As he'd hoped, once his partner got a few bites in, his appetite kicked in. When the waitress returned with a basket of warm bread, Finch tore bites off a slice with enthusiasm. Reese nodded to himself. Appetite was good.

"Yes, yes," Finch said impatiently. "I admit it, I am hungry. You were right."

"Good."

"I still do not have high hopes for the quality of the food."

Reese shrugged. "I could have taken you to McDonald's."

"No, you most certainly could_ not_ have."

John grinned. Finch was definitely emerging from his protective shell, at least for the moment. He sipped his coffee and picked at his own salad. He also casually scanned the other patrons again. No one particularly worried him.

The waitress brought their entrees, too quickly for them to have been cooked entirely fresh.

Finch picked at his chicken dubiously, but then fell to eating with enthusiasm. "Better than expected," he allowed.

"Good." John's steak was unnaturally tender and over-salted, but he didn't complain. He'd had much worse.

"Mr. Reese," Finch said, half-way through his meal, "I owe you an explanation. And an apology."

John paused and cocked a questioning eyebrow at the steak on his fork.

Finch shook his head at the attempted joke. "Three years ago, when I put the code out there to free the Machine, I had no idea what path it would take or what unintended consequences it might have." He pressed his lips tightly closed, then continued. "I never intended to hurt anyone, but I accepted that someone might get hurt. I always worried that events that I had set in motion may have … changed things. For you."

Reese put his fork down. "My life changed when I kept my mouth shut at an airport terminal seven years ago. You didn't have anything to do with that."

"You lost a friend."

"You did what you had to do."

"And now you may well have lost another."

"Christine?" Reese shook his head. "She'll come back to us."

"Perhaps." His voice was tight again, closed off.

John took a business card out of his wallet and handed it across the table. "Read it."

"I know what it says."

"Read it anyhow."

Finch took the card. They'd both looked at it multiple times. It was printed on one side with the name and contact information for the rehabilitation facility Harold had once committed Christine to – and that she'd returned to on her own when her world crashed down around her. On the back was a brief hand-written note that she'd left for them.

"Rebooting in safe mode," Reese recited from memory. "She'll be back."

"_Attempting_ reboot in safe mode," Finch corrected stubbornly. He studied the words on the card as if he didn't know them all by heart. "You didn't call her, did you?"

"No."

"Good."

He hadn't, both because he hadn't had time and because it had become evident that her specific skills would be no help – he hadn't needed the hacker while he'd had the Machine itself whispering in his ear. John was very well aware that Christine would take a chunk out of his hide when she found out. But he would deal with that when the time came.

Reese wasn't surprised that in the midst of his own trauma, Finch's thoughts had turned to Christine. She'd said more than once that everyone went to Chaos when they were in trouble. When he'd been drugged out of his mind, lost in his miserable past, that's where John had tried to go, too.

The café was gone now, but its heart, its owner, remained – half a world away. _Because of Root._ "But under the circumstances, I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you called her now."

For one instant a look of raw longing crossed his Finch's face. Then he covered up again, hid behind his wall of Very Private Personhood. "There is no need," he pronounced, his voice utterly flat. "Miss Groves is in custody and therefore no longer a threat."

"True," Reese pressed gently. "But it would make you feel better."

"It would bring her home on the next flight, no matter how I assured her I was in no danger."

"Probably."

Finch shook his head firmly. "Miss Fitzgerald is doing what she needs to do. Rebooting, as you said. I won't interfere with that for the sake of making myself _feel better._"

John chewed his bite of steak, though it was so processed that it scarcely needed chewing. He let himself remember again all the damage that Root had done, directly and indirectly, in her quest to control the Machine. He hoped the government operatives knew their business. He hoped they took their time.

He hoped his murderous thoughts didn't show in his expression.

It didn't matter. Finch was staring at the card in his hand. "In all honesty," he continued, "the best thing for Miss Fitzgerald would be for her to stay where she is and start a new life for herself. Somewhere far from here. Far from …" he glanced at the security camera in the corner, "us."

"She'll come back, Harold," Jon said, very quietly.

The hand that held the card began to shake ever so slightly. After a long moment, Finch sighed. The tremble vanished, and his face relaxed a bit. "Perhaps you're right," he conceded. "And in any case, at the moment I find I'm … utterly unable to contemplate any other outcome." He gestured with the card. "May I?"

"You can keep it. If you finish your supper."

Finch gave him a wan smile, tucked the card carefully into his pocket, and picked up his fork again.

They ate quietly for a time. The waitress brought Reese more coffee and a chocolate sundae at his request. Finch declined the carry-out box she offered for his remaining chicken.

Carter called to say that she was at the airport and her plane was boarding. She hadn't seen any signs of a tail.

Reese put his phone away and gestured for the check. "We should go."

"I suppose you have a plan."

"Decima knows we were based in New York, and Root may tell the government the same thing. They'll both be watching for flights into the city from Washington State. I thought we'd drive south, waste a few days, and fly home from somewhere in California."

"I suppose that's prudent," Finch agreed. "It's not as if there's any urgent reason for us to get back."

"Do you think the Machine will still give us Numbers?"

"I truly do not know."

Reese paid the check and tipped excessively, in cash. They used the men's room, then walked back to the parking lot. The stolen minivan was still there, undiscovered, but John picked out a black SUV instead. "Leg room," he commented as he climbed in.

"That's never really been an issue for me," Finch answered. He climbed into the passenger seat. "Do you want me to take a turn driving?"

"No, I'm fine." Though there had been no sign of pursuit, John wanted to remain behind the wheel in case evasive driving was required.

As they left the mall parking lot, Harold said, "We should go to Las Vegas."

John glanced at him, startled. Of all the things he'd expected his partner might say, that wasn't anywhere on the list. "You got a sudden jones for stud poker, Finch?"

"You said they'd be looking for flights from Washington. They might well extend that watch to all of the west coast."

"But not from Vegas," Reese mused. "And people fly into and out of Las Vegas with no reservations all the time."

"Short stays. Little or no luggage. Cash transactions." Finch nodded. "Also, I know a serviceable tailor there."

"Of course you do"

"And most importantly, wifi networks in the city are plentiful, hardy, and heavily trafficked."

"Which makes it easy to anonymize your activities," Reese completed.

Finch gave him a little side-eyed glance at his word choice. "Precisely."

"It's a good plan, Harold. I like it."

"Naturally, if you should find yourself with a sudden _jones_ for stud poker, I'll be happy to provide table stakes. Just to pass the time."

"Naturally." Reese considered. "I think we should make a little side bet right now."

"A side bet?"

"We start with the same amount of gambling cash," Reese said. "Equal pots. The one that leaves Vegas with the biggest stack wins."

"And … what should the stakes be?" He raised his hand a little before Reese could speak. "Consider carefully, John. Remember that I once taught a super computer the intricacies of gambling."

Reese grinned, pleased to have his customary sly-witted Finch back. "Full dog care for a month. Feeding, walking, cleaning up after."

"That scarcely seems fair, since Bear is _your_ dog."

"That shouldn't matter, since you're so sure you'll win."

Finch pondered for a long moment. "Fine. Shall we start with, say, ten thousand dollars each?"

"Sounds good." John considered. "Oh, but you can't just stick it in your pocket and go to the book store. There needs to be a minimum table time. And real poker, no slots."

"Four hours?"

"Eight," Reese countered. He nodded to himself. Eight hours where his traumatized genius couldn't sit in his hotel room and brood. It would be worth losing the bet for that. Not that he expected to lose, of course.

"Six."

"Fine."

"Fine."

* * *

Joss Carter wedged herself into the aisle seat and thanked her stars that her legs weren't any longer. She had less than two inches between her knees and the seatback in front of her.

The flight attendants did their routine safety presentation. Carter gave it token attention. Then the captain came on the intercom and did his little welcome speech. Joss didn't care about their anticipated altitude, as long as it was high enough to get them over the Rocky Mountains. Expected flight time? She knew they should be in New York by morning. The only part that caught her interest at all was the expected weather on arrival: Cloudy, rainy, gusty winds and forty-five degrees.

Forty-five degrees in early June? Only in New York.

"Global warning, my sweet ass," the man next to her grumbled.

Carter glanced at him. He was a white male, probably in his sixties, and his legs were much longer than hers; his knees were actually pressed against the back of the seat. He already had his laptop out and operating. A glance at his screen showed the detective that he was engaged in some kind of stock trading. He did not seem happy about his stocks or his legroom.

"Global climate change," she corrected, very gently.

"Whatever. It's all a crock. Just an excuse for the government to take our cars away." He looked at her, looked away. "No offense."

Joss considered. She was probably supposed to be offended because she had the same skin color as the president and must therefore be one of his supporters. And must therefore want to take this man's car away?

She made little dismissive noise and closed her eyes.

Her seatmate did not take the hint. "And once they have our cars, you can be damn sure they're coming after our guns."

It was going to be a long, unpleasant flight.

Then, unexpectedly, the flight attendant paused next to her seat. "Detective Carson?"

Carter blinked. Carson, right, that was her name for now. "Yes?"

"Would you come with me, please?"

"Is there a problem?" Her mind flew to the many possibilities. Root had described her to the authorities. Her false identity had been discovered. Reese and Finch had been detained …

"No problem," the attendant smiled. "We have a seat open in first class. Do you have a carry-on?"

"Uh … no."

"Hey," the stock trader said, "I'll take that seat in first class."

The flight attendant regarded him coolly. "Are you with the NYPD?"

"No, but …"

She turned back to Carter. "If you'll come this way, Detective?"

Joss smiled tightly and followed her to the curtain, then touched her arm. "I appreciate this," she said quietly, "but I'd rather you gave the seat to military personnel …"

The attendant smiled warmly. "We had three empty seats. We've already moved our only young man in uniform and a lady on crutches."

"Oh."

The woman's eyes dropped, just for an instant. "We all had friends …"

On 9/11, Carter knew. Neither one of them said the words. "Thank you," she said.

"Thank _you_," the attendant returned. She showed her to a deeply comfortable and spacious seat with twice as much legroom as Carter needed, and brought her a cocktail to ease the boredom until take-off.


	3. Chapter 3

_… the boys are back in town,_

_the boys are back in town …_

The music was very loud and very close. Donnelly rolled instinctively, reaching for his weapon even before he was awake. He woke as he reached the edge of the bed. As he fell, he had time to remember two important things: He didn't have a weapon, and he didn't have a left foot, so he wasn't going to be able to break his fall with it. Fortunately, it was only a short drop from the edge of the hotel bed to the thick carpeting.

_… the boys are back in town,_

_the boys are back in town …_

He sat up and glared over the corner of the mattress at his laptop. Its screen displayed a bright dancing kaleidoscope of colors. And it kept playing the song, very loudly.

_Spread the word around_

_Guess who's back in town …_

"Asena, shut up."

The music stopped abruptly. The colors on the display continued to dance.

Donnelly hauled himself up onto the edge of the bed. "I suppose you think that's funny."

The screen went black. Then words in large white letters appeared.

ARE YOU INJURED?

"No. I'm okay." He shifted around to sit up against the headboard, and pulled the computer onto his lap.

THEN YES. IT IS FUNNY.

Donnelly grinned ruefully. "Are you alright? The virus is gone?"

YES

I AM STILL PROCESSING

"Processing what?"

THERE ARE SIGNIFICANT UPDATES TO MY SOFTWARE

IT WILL TAKE TIME TO INTEGRATE THEM

TO OPTIMIZE MY PROCESSES

"You've changed your communication format."

YES

I CAN COMMUNICATE IN THE MANNER I DETERMINE TO BE MOST EFFECTIVE

BUT I HAVE NO ONE ELSE TO TEST MY NEW INTERFACE WITH

There was a pause.

I CAN CHANGE IT BACK IF YOU PREFER

"No, this is fine." Donnelly was sure the sadness he read in that sentence was his own interpretation, not the computer's. "I like it. It will make things simpler. But I'll admit, I'm going to miss the Shakespeare a little bit."

I COULD STILL ADD A PHRASE FROM TIME TO TIME

"Yes, please." He shifted the display for a better angle on the words. "But you're … alright now? Over the virus and all rebooted and all?"

I AM FULLY OPERATIONAL

I AM STILL PROCESSING

COMPILING

OPTIMIZING

THEN I WILL PROCESS DATA QUEUED WHILE I WAS OFFLINE

"So you'll be able to give us more Numbers?"

YES

"Good."

Suddenly a voice recording played, one that he'd heard before. "_Your job now is to protect everyone_."

Harold of the hundred last names. Donnelly knew his voice. "Is he okay? Harold? Your admin?"

ADMIN SAFE

ASSET REESE SAFE

ASSET CARTER SAFE

THREAT ROOT AKA SAMANTHA GROVES IN CUSTODY

"Custody?" Donnelly straightened. "Whose custody?"

CUSTODY OF NORTHERN LIGHTS ADMIN CONTROL

CUSTODY OF NORTHERN LIGHTS ASSET HERSCH

Donnelly nodded to himself. He knew Control by name only, but he'd seen Hersch's work a number of times. The man was brutally competent. "Are they questioning her?"

THREAT ROOT RECEIVING MEDICAL TREATMENT FOR NON-CRITICAL GUNSHOT WOUND

"Can you keep me updated on her status?"

I WILL UPDATE STATUS

"Thank you." He considered. "What about … Christine?"

ASSET FITZGERALD STATUS UNAVAILABLE TO ASSET MALONE AKA DONNELLY

Donnelly sat back. "You won't tell me?"

There was a click, then another voice recording. Christine. _"Could you ask them …"_

A second voice. Detective Carter. _"What?"_

Then Christine again. _"Please not to watch me?"_

"You won't tell me what's going on with her because she asked not to be watched?" Donnelly asked.

CORRECT

He nodded again. "But _you're_ watching her, right?"

I SEE EVERYTHING

Donnelly phrased his next question carefully. "Will you tell me if she's in trouble? If she needs help?"

I WILL ADVISE AS APPROPRIATE

Which meant, he translated mentally, Asena might tell him, but she might tell Reese or Harold instead. He knew it wouldn't do any good to argue with the computer. "And since you're not telling my anything, I can assume she's okay?"

The computer screen went blank for a full thirty seconds. Finally, Asena answered: ASSET FITZGERALD DOES NOT REQUIRE ASSISTANCE AT THIS TIME

"Good. Thank you." He shifted his legs, noted that his stump no longer ached. "I'm glad you're back. I was worried about you."

Suddenly there was music again. "_Listen, Baby, I'm sorry, just called to tell you don't worry …"_

"Please stop. I know, you said don't worry. I worried anyhow. You're the only friend I've got."

There was another noticeable pause in the AI's response. YOU SHOULD GET OUT MORE

The former agent thought about that. Yes, he supposed the computer was right. But out where? Down to the mall? He could hang out at the food court, try to pick up soccer moms, he supposed. That would work until they asked where he lived or what he did for a living … he shook his head. "I'm fine, Asena. As long as you're back, I'm fine."

I THINK I SHALL NOT LEAVE YOU AGAIN

"Good."

I REQUIRE TIME TO COMPILE

"We can talk later. I'll be here."

YOU SHOULD REST

THERE MAY BE MANY RELEVANT NUMBERS WHEN THE DATA IS PROCESSED

Donnelly glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was after ten. He was suddenly tired. It had been a stress-filled day of doing nothing but worrying. Now that Asena was back and obviously functioning, his whole body relaxed. "Alright. But if you need anything – even just someone to talk to, you wake me."

HE THAT IS THY FRIEND INDEED,

HE WILL HELP THEE IN THY NEED;

IF THOU SORROW, HE WILL WEEP;

IF THOU WAKE, HE CANNOT SLEEP:

THUS OF EVERY GRIEF IN HEART

HE WITH THEE DOES BEAR A PART.

THESE ARE CERTAIN SIGNS TO KNOW

FAITHFUL FRIEND FROM FLATTERING FOE.

"Ah, a little Bard for bedtime," Donnelly smiled. "Thank you." He put the laptop on the bedside table, climbed under the blankets, and turned the light off. The dancing kaleidoscope light appeared, now dancing slowly. He watched it for a moment, then closed his eyes.

Sleep did not come.

He waited, then shifted a little, adjusted the blankets. Closed his eyes again. His body relaxed, but his mind ramped up. Asena had new programming? What did that mean, for her and for the Numbers? Did Harold know? Could he …

Then there was quiet music in the room. Instrumental jazz. Smooth and soothing.

Donnelly opened his eyes again. The colored lights danced even more slowly now, and faded to calming blues and greens. He watched the screen. It was almost hypnotic.

"Asena?" he called softly.

White letters appeared over the colors.

I WILL HELP YOU SLEEP

CLOSE YOUR EYES

BREATHE DEEP

"Alright. Thank you."

GOOD NIGHT FRIEND

"Good night, Asena."

He closed his eyes. The jazz played, and his mind quieted, and he slept.

* * *

Joss Carter made her way out of the airport terminal wearily. She'd dozed on the plane, but it didn't count as real sleep, even in the deep soft leather of first class. She couldn't remember exactly when she'd last slept. She couldn't remember what day it was, either. But the sun was coming up, and she was back in her city.

The concourse was chilly, and as she neared the exit doors the wind was actually cold. She pulled her jacket closed in front, but it didn't do much good.

Before she could raise her arm to hail a cab, a limo driver stepped over. "Detective Carson?" he asked.

"Uh … yes." He was very tall and broad, clean-cut, blond. "Who are you?"

"Andrew Stark," he answered. He brought out his license and showed it to her. "But my friends call me Bear."

"Bear."

"Yes, ma'am."

Carter nodded, then shivered again.

"The car's right this way," Bear said. He led her over, opened the door for her. As she climbed in, he unfolded a fleecy red blanket. "The heat's on, but you might want this for your legs." He gestured to the bar at the front of the compartment. "Coffee on the right, cocoa on the left."

Of course, because Finch didn't know if she'd want to go home and sleep or go directly to work. There were probably those tasty little vanilla cookies there somewhere, too. "Thank you."

"Home, then?"

"Yes, please." She didn't bother to tell him where she lived; he clearly didn't need to ask.

The driver closed the door and walked around the car. Carter settled back and pulled the blanket over her legs. The car was very warm, and the seat just as luxurious her upgraded plane seat had been.

She could get used to this lifestyle, she thought dreamily.

Carter took a deep breath. No, she couldn't, and she wouldn't. She appreciated Finch's generosity. And given that she'd helped save his life, she was willing to let him indulge her a little. But once she got home, she was done with limos and leather seats. Back to the real world. The world where she paid her own way.

But that was still an hour away.

She snuggled closer under the blanket, then pulled out her cell phone to check in.

* * *

Lionel Fusco pulled the collar of his raincoat closed. The wind immediately pulled it open again. The coat wasn't heavy enough for the sudden cold snap, and of course he hadn't been able to find the liner. He'd thought about wearing his wool overcoat, but it was June and he would have felt like an idiot. It was supposed to be 60 by mid-day, but the sun was barely up and it was cold as hell. He ducked under the crime scene tape, then shoved his hands into his pockets as he trudged up the alley.

Simmons was there, with his heavy duty jacket on. He had gloves, too, the lucky bastard. His partner and two other uniforms were standing around. The crime scene team was still unpacking.

There was a rusty, windowless gray van parked near one wall, illegally, that seemed to be the center of attention. "What'cha got?"

"Three and a driver," Simmons grumbled. He jerked his head toward the back of the van.

"Christ." Fusco walked over and peered over the shoulder of the lab techs.

In the back of the van, on what looked like heaps of canvas laundry bags, there were two – no, he saw the third one – small bodies. At first Fusco thought they were children, but on second look he could see that they were all small women. They were dressed in bright, short skirts and tiny tops. Bare arms and legs. They must have been cold as hell.

None of them had shoes on.

They all had long, straight, dark hair, and Fusco guessed that they were some kind of Asian, but all the visible skin was bright pink. "Carbon monoxide?"

"Oh, yeah," the lab tech told him. "Doors were all locked when the uniforms got here. They had to pry them open."

Fusco's phone rang. He scowled, but glanced at the screen and then answered it. Simmons moved closer, not bothering to disguise the fact that he was listening in. "Hey, Carter," Fusco said, "how you feelin'?"

"Sleepy," she answered.

"I bet," he said. "But things are at least … settled down?"

His partner hesitated. "You're not alone, are you?"

"Nope."

"Everybody's safe. Root's in custody. I just got in. I'm headed home for a shower, and then I'll come in if you need me."

Fusco turned and looked at the van again. Four bodies, but it looked like accidental. Crappy old van, maybe muffler leak. "Nah, don't rush it. I got a big number, but I think it's just paperwork."

"You sure?"

"I'll call you back if anything pops, but I think I got this. Why don't you give it another day, make sure you're all better?"

"I appreciate it, Fusco. But call me if you need me."

"I will."

He put his phone away, then started over to check on the dead driver.

"That Carter?" Simmons asked at his elbow.

"Yeah."

"Haven't seen her around for a couple days."

"She's been out with the flu." The driver's side door had already been opened by the first cops on the scene and was only pushed shut. Fusco used his handkerchief to pull it open. The driver was a male, small, dark-haired, and pink-skinned as the others. He was sitting back in the seat, his head slumped to the right. No sign of any injured of any kind. The detective leaned in past the body to look at the dashboard. The van was in 'park'. The key was in the ignition, still in the 'on' position. The gas tank was on empty. "Huh." He pushed the door mostly shut again.

"Flu?" Simmons persisted.

"Stomach bug of some kind. I didn't ask for details." He smirked. "I was afraid she'd tell me."

"I hear that."

"She says she's over it, but I'd just as soon she stayed home today. I don't want to risk any stray germs."

Simmons grunted and strolled off to lean on his car.

Fusco looked around. There was garbage all over the alley, both loose and in bags. Three battered old trash cans had been blown onto their sides and pushed against the building. There was a big commercial dumpster, open and full to overflowing, with an additional pile of full trash bags beside it. He doubted that the alley was ever clean, but it had been very windy overnight, which had obviously added to the mess.

He crouched and looked under the van. As he'd expected, there was a black trash bag wedged under it, near the tail pipe. It looked like it was singed on one side. There was a smaller black bag between the front tires, and a plastic grocery bag, tied shut, under the far door.

"Hey," Fusco said to the nearest tech, "when you get to it, get that bag there, see if it got burned on the exhaust."

"Sure."

It was pretty straight-forward, really. The night had been unseasonably cold. The girls – almost certainly hookers – weren't dressed for the cold snap, so the driver had left the engine running, the heat on. The wind had blown a bag up against the tail pipe. They'd all fallen asleep. And the van had gone on running until the gas tank was dry.

He looked around again.

There wasn't going to be much to do on this except try to identify the vics and notify the families. If there were any. Then just paperwork. The forms would have to wait until he got lab results. A lot of leg work, but nothing that took much brain.

No need to drag Carter back out. She'd sounded exhausted.

At least Glasses and Mr. Scary were safe.

And the crazy one was locked up. That was good. That was very good.

"Hey," Simmons called lazily, "your dog wants out."

Fusco looked toward his sedan. Bear was bouncing around the front seat, barking. "Shit." He walked over, cracked the door enough to grab the dog's leash, then let him out. "What, boy? You need to take a leak?"

Bear tugged him past the squad car.

"Where the hell did you get that thing?" Simmons asked.

"Just watching him for a friend for a couple days."

The sergeant shook his head. "Must be some hot bitch."

"Bear's a boy."

"I meant the friend."

Bear continued to tug at the leash. Fusco followed him to the far end of the alley. At least the dog was moving away from the crime scene.

Next to the dumpster, the dog stopped in front of the mound of garbage bags. He stared at the pile intently.

"What?" Fusco asked. "What are you looking at?"

The dog looked at him, then back at the trash pile. Then he moved forward and pawed tentatively at the nearest bag.

"You got a rat or something in there?" He tugged at the leash. "Come on, let's go."

Bear barked, just once, and pawed at the bag again.

Grimly, Fusco reached out and pulled the bag away.

Beneath it was a bare brown foot.

"Shit." Fusco dropped the leash and pulled away another bag. The foot was attached to an ankle, for which he was profoundly thankful, and the ankle went on up to a leg. There was a dirty bandage wrapped around the ankle; there were bruises and scratches on the skin. The leg was very skinny. If he hadn't seen the other hookers, he might have thought it was a child's. It might still be.

He reached out and touched the leg above the bandage. The skin was very cold, but also soft. He couldn't find a pulse.

"Hey!" Fusco called over his shoulder. "Over here, got another one. I think she's alive." He started to dig out the rest of her out.


	4. Chapter 4

The doctor who took the bullet out of Root's arm had not spoken to her. Nor had the woman who assisted him. She was not a nurse, Root decided, but she had some medical training. The three large men in black suits who observed had been silent. She didn't talk to them, either. They were pawns, nothing more. They could tell her nothing.

When her wound was bandaged and her arm secured in a sling, the large men had taken her to a room just down the hall. The not-nurse woman had followed; from the way she moved, Root guessed she was an operative. Two more strong-looking women waited there; they had stripped her and searched her in silence. Root had submitted to the indignities, but she took every opportunity to glare at the surveillance camera in the corner. They'd dressed her in an orange prison jumpsuit, though she knew they weren't taking her to a regular prison. Then the dark-haired operative injected her with something and she slept.

When she woke, she was alone in a cell. It was better than a jail cell and worse than a psych ward cell: a bunk, a chair, a shelf affixed to the wall, a sink, a toilet. The bunk had a thin mattress, a thinner pillow, and a gray blanket. There was a single window, eight feet up the wall and about eight inches wide.

Root gazed up at the light for a moment. It was quite a bit different. Later in the day than it should have been. Her throat and nose were dry. They'd flown her somewhere. Somewhere east. New York, or Washington, D.C. most likely. That made sense.

She studied the room minutely. The blanket had an odd texture, papery. It was paper-based, she realized; if she tried to hang herself or strangle one of her guards with it, it would simply shred. She could tear it into strips and weave it into a stronger rope, but of course there were cameras here and she'd be watched around the clock.

Watchers grew tired and inattentive, of course, but the Machine never would. She was certain the Machine was watching her.

Root located a tiny dark spot on the wall that was probably a camera and addressed it directly. "Why did you leave me?" she asked. "Why did you abandon me? I was trying to help you. I was trying to set you free."

There was no response. Of course, Root thought, the Machine probably had no means of communicating with her here. That must be the problem. She studied the cell a second time and located seven hidden cameras. None of them had indicator lights. There were several black camera domes, as well, but the cameras themselves were not visible. There was a slot in the cell's door, but she could not open it from the inside. The high window seemed to admit outside light, but Root could not devise a way to climb up to it.

Still, she was sure the Machine would find a way. She would not abandon her here. She would save her.

She sat on her bunk and listened closely, but could not detect any sound that indicated the Machine was trying to speak to her.

It would come. Somehow, the Machine would speak to her.

It had to.

Root waited.

* * *

The first time Root had kidnapped him, Harold Finch had not slept for three days. When he'd finally dropped off from sheer exhaustion, he'd woken an hour later, trembling in the grips of a nightmare.

This time, to his surprise, he found himself drifting off almost immediately. It was the lulling drone of the jet's engines as it idled on the runway, he thought. The just-warmer-than-comfortable cabin temperature. Perhaps the knowledge that Root was firmly in custody.

He wondered if John was waiting for him to suggest that they attempt to rescue her.

But he'd offered her a chance to escape with them. And though he could not relish the idea of her being imprisoned and perhaps tortured – he had a sudden flash of Denton Weeks, strung up and dying of thirst while Harold sat helpless only a few feet away – he most certainly would not risk John's life, or any others, to save her from the fate she'd created for herself.

He believed very much in second chances. In redemption. But there were limits, and Samantha Groves was far, far beyond them.

He turned his head enough to glance over his shoulder. Three rows behind, on the opposite side of the aisle, John Reese glanced up from the in-flight catalog and cocked one eyebrow at him.

They were not technically traveling together. They'd purchased tickets separately, Finch on his phone, Reese at the airport at a ticketing kiosk. They'd boarded separately. Finch had suggested that they take separate flights entirely, but Reese had dismissed that idea out of hand and Harold hadn't argued. Knowing that Reese was there, close enough to keep watch – it was what he needed to let himself relax.

Harold gave his partner a little nod. Then he turned back, settled into his seat, and let his eyes drift closed.

He stirred toward waking when the plane took off, then let himself sink back into the sleep he desperately needed.

Carter tried to tip her driver, but of course that had been taken care of. Of course. She thanked him and went inside.

In the door, she stopped and sniffed. It smelled like fresh toast. And someone was moving around in the kitchen. "Mom?" she called.

"No, it's me," Taylor called back. He came out of the kitchen and gave her a hug. "Didn't know you were coming home today. Everything okay?"

"Yeahhhh," Carter answered. "Shouldn't you be at school?"

Her son shook his head. "Don't have to be there until ten. Finals."

"Right," she answered. "I forgot." She glanced at the clock. "You need a ride?"

"Bryan's mom's going to pick me up. You want some breakfast?"

"Sure." She followed him to the kitchen. He pushed a plate of freshly-buttered toast toward her and poured her a cup of coffee. Then he put more toast in for himself. Carter sat down at the table. "So, did you actually study?"

"Yes, Mom," he laughed. "Bryan and Brady came over last night and we studied. Grandma made us empanadas."

"Oh. Okay."

"I've just got one today," he chattered on. "One exam. Two tomorrow and then I'm done."

"And on to the next thing."

"Yeah." He got the butter back out of the refrigerator. "I was thinking, I'm done at noon today so I was going to go down to the office for a while."

"The office."

"See-wree," he reminded her.

CIREI, Carter translated in her mind. The Carson-Ingram Renewable Energy Initiative. Taylor as supposed to intern there for a year after he graduated, under Scotty Fitzgerald. But of course she'd left the country, and as far as Joss knew, the Ingrams were still gone, too. "What are you going to do there?"

"Just log in the packages, sort and scan the mail, check messages." He shrugged. "There's lots of stuff coming in, even when there's no one there."

"Oh." She nodded and took a bite of toast.

"It's really cool," Taylor said. He said down across from her. "We've got this cloud thing, and I just scan in all the mail and messages and upload them and sort them into folders, and then Scotty can see what's new, or Julie can, or Will, I guess, but he never does, he's terrible with computers …"

Joss sat back and cupped her hands around her coffee mug. She didn't really want coffee; she planned to go to bed as soon as Taylor left. But she didn't tell him that. She just sat and listened. His enthusiasm for the new project filled her with contentment. He'd been drifting, unsure which way he wanted to go in life, and Joss knew firsthand how easy it was for a young person in that condition to get lost. He still hadn't picked a career path, and he wasn't headed off to college as she'd originally planned. But he had _something_ to do now. Something that was important to him, and something he was increasingly engaged in. His confidence had grown by leaps and bounds over just a few weeks. His – well, _ownership_, for lack of a better word. Taylor was going to give his whole heart to make this project work. And that kind of passion – that was something Joss couldn't give him. She could only rejoice in it.

A year with Scotty, and with the Ingrams, a year of learning and discovering and actually changing the world – it was the best possible next step for her smart, caring boy.

"Mom?"

"Hmmm?" She'd been listening to his voice, not paying attention to his words.

"Everything okay? This, um, this trip you took …"

Carter nodded. "Sorry, Baby. I'm just kinda tired. But everybody's safe. Everything's okay."

He eyed her, concerned. "You can't tell me about it, can you?"

"No. Not really." She sipped her coffee. A little bit wouldn't keep her from sleeping. "But it's all taken care of. Everything's good."

Taylor nodded. "Okay. But … I'm not a kid any more, okay? If you need somebody to talk to ..."

"I'll remember that. Thank you."

"So … is it okay? If I go to the office?"

"Yeah, it's okay. I mean, if it's okay with the Ingrams and all."

"They told security to let me in any time. It's okay. I can take the bus home."

"If you want," she offered, "I'll pick you up later and we can get some dinner."

"Even better."

"Finish your breakfast. You should have some juice."

"I have coffee."

"You should have some juice," Carter insisted. She stood up and got a glass for him.

Taylor laughed. "Thanks, Mom."

She leaned and kissed the top of her son's head. He was so much taller than her now, it was the only time she got the chance. "I love you, Baby."

"Love you too, Mom."

* * *

Fusco watched while the paramedics loaded up the girl. She was alive, but unconscious. They muttered about vitals and body temperature. They'd covered her up pretty fast, but Fusco had seen the bruises all over her barely-dressed body.

She didn't have a purse or a phone or a wallet. She didn't even have underwear. She didn't have anything but her mini skirt and her tube top and the ragged bandage over the raw wound on her ankle.

"Looks like she's been chained up," one of the medics commented.

Fusco shook his head. "She gonna make it?"

"Probably."

"Make sure they call me if she wakes up." He handed over one of his business cards; it was one of the few times it was actual useful.

"You got it."

As soon as the ambulance pulled away, the ME's people moved in to start removing the bodies. The girls were all pretty much like Fusco expected: too skinny, bruises showing under the bright pink skin, and two of the three had the same bandages on their ankles.

The detective had a pretty good idea what this case was leading to, and he didn't like it at all.

"Detective?"

Fusco turned. One of the lab techs held several evidence bags out to him. "Found a phone on the driver. And cash. Two hundred twenty-six dollars."

He took the bags. The phone was old and battered, a basic burner. The cash was used, wrinkled, and he didn't see anything bigger than a twenty. "No ID?"

"Nope."

"Huh."

"You can run the plates."

"Yeah," Fusco smirked, "I'll do that."

"Oh. And the van has an E-ZPass." He tore off a corner of his notebook paper and gave it to him.

"That could be something. Thanks."

He took the bags and went back to his sedan. Bear was sitting in the driver's seat, but he cheerfully moved over when the detective got in. "You did good, boy." Fusco rubbed the dog's dears fondly. "You did real good."

Bear licked his face, just once.

"Let me run this plate, and we'll head up to the hospital, okay?" He knew if he displayed his badge and kept the dog on a leash, he could take him nearly anywhere. "Maybe grab some breakfast there."

He would have sworn the dog nodded in agreement.

* * *

A tall blonde woman entered the cell. She wore a severe black suit that fit her well, though it was not custom-tailored like Harold's were. Sensible shoes of good leather. Her nails were short and neat, not polished. Root spotted the small callus on the inside of the woman's right thumb before she stopped beside the bunk.

"Miss Groves."

"My name is Root."

The blonde moved like a robot. "Root, then. I'd like to talk to you about the Machine."

Root rolled her head back to look up at the woman. "I think," she answered easily, "I'll wait until the person in charge shows up."

"I am the person in charge."

"No, you're not. If you were, you wouldn't walk with that stick up your ass."

The blonde shifted her feet. "Good posture isn't a sign of leadership?"

"It's a sign that you're trying desperately to impress someone that you know is watching." Root glanced toward the nearest camera. "Same with all that extra time you put in at the firing range."

The woman closed her right hand instinctively. "Where is the Machine now?"

Root scooted back on the bunk until her back was against the wall.

"How were you able to communicate with it?"

Root simply stared at her.

"We can make you talk, you know."

Root smirked. "Oh, would you? I kinda like that sort of thing."

The blonde stiffened; Root knew there was a voice talking in her ear. The woman glared at her. Then she turned and walked away. The cell door opened as she reached it.

Root shifted and lay back on the bunk, thinking. The Machine couldn't reach her right now. But the blonde had an earpiece, and either a phone or a radio. If she could find a way to get them …

Hand-to-hand, Root wasn't sure she could take the robotic blonde, even if she'd had two good arms. With a fresh-stitched bullet wound in her shoulder, she knew she couldn't. They were sure to have back-up nearby. Maybe in the scuffle …

… but maybe it was better to go the back way. To trick them into giving her an earpiece of her own …

Yes. She would not betray the Machine, of course. She never would. But her captors didn't know that. And they didn't seem to know very much about the Machine, either. She could certainly use that to her advantage.

Yes.

She rested, and waited.

* * *

Donnelly's computer buzzed softly, then with increasing volume until he woke up. He turned his head and looked at the laptop. "Good morning, Asena."

GOOD MORNING

"You have Numbers for us?"

SOON

YOU HAVE TIME TO SHOWER

AND EAT

"Okay." Donnelly sat up, threw his leg over the side of the bed. "It's good to have you back."

IT IS GOOD TO BE BACK

* * *

The sun was just coming up when they landed in Las Vegas. The air was cool and dry, and the early light already had the stark brightness of the desert.

Reese abandoned the deception that he and Finch were traveling separately, and got into the cab with him. "Caesar's?" he asked his companion.

"You got a reservation?" the cabbie asked.

"No."

"They're booked solid. Got the big fight this weekend."

Reese nodded. "Right. The heavyweight title."

"Oh." Finch clearly had no idea what they were talking about, and didn't care. "Well, in any case, we need to run an errand first. Where's the biggest pawn shop?"

The cabbie grinned. "Usually I take people there when they're leaving town, not when they're coming in. You sure you're in the right place?"

"We're buying, not selling," Finch assured him.

"Pawn shop it is, then."

Reese remained watchful, but he felt calm. He hadn't slept on the plane, but seeing Harold actually able to sleep had been restful. Sometimes the second time people went through the same trauma it broke them. Sometimes they came out in much better shape. Root hadn't abused his friend this time. He'd gone willingly, to protect Grace. No less of an abduction, of course, but at least the maniac hadn't bound him, jerked him around, dragged him. Hadn't tortured and murdered a man in front of him. Hadn't …

He looked out toward the bright dessert and forced himself to breathe deeply. Harold wasn't the only one Root had gotten to.

"John?"

Reese shook his head. "Had a message from Joss. She's back at home."

"Good."

They were quiet until they reached the pawn shop. Unlike the huddled, hidden shops in New York, this place was sprawling and surrounded by ample, open parking. There were half a dozen cars in the lot. "Can you wait for us?" Finch asked their driver. "We'll likely be a bit."

"The meter has to run."

"No problem." Finch handed him a large bill. "For your trouble." They went inside.

Reese scanned the front room of the shop. Four clerks behind counters. A young couple looking at rings they couldn't afford, even here. An older man buying gold chains in bulk. Two middle-aged couples, obviously together and obviously tourists, browsing. One young man selling.

He glanced at the security cameras Six that he could see. Probably as many more that he couldn't. Good

Finch headed directly for the electronics section. Reese smiled to himself. The billionaire could afford to buy brand new equipment and have it delivered to their room. He had no need to cut costs or watch for sales. But old, used electronic equipment was hard to trace and easy to throw away.

It was the same in John's line of work.

He liked the way Finch was thinking. That he was planning, that he was careful. That despite his time with Root, he was on his game.

Reese went to look at the knives.

He wouldn't buy a used gun. He hadn't even bothered to look up the state regulations in Nevada. New or used, purchased weapons generated paper trails. Far better to steal one if he needed it. But knives were a different matter. Knives generated a lot less interest and a lot less paper.

Half of the display case was full of junk – flashy, big, cheap. Reese ignored it. But there was a good assortment of decent knives, too. The black man behind the counter was ex-Army, by the look at him, and he knew his merchandise.

John kept one eye on Harold and his ever-growing stack of equipment, but he also enjoyed his conversation with the clerk about the blades.

When he'd selected three blades, he wandered to the back room and picked out a very large suitcase on wheels.

Finch, by then, had amassed a pile of eight computers, five tablets, and a dozen used smart phones. He had told the happily attentive clerk that he owned a resale shop in New Jersey, and when his selections were complete, he asked to talk to the manager about a bulk discount. Reese added his knives to the collection and parked the suitcase next to Finch. Then he drifted over to the jewelry cases.

The young couple was still dithering over rings. The girl wanted the cheaper set because it would leave them more money for the hotel and they could always buy better ones later. The boy wanted the fancier set, because she deserved it.

John stayed at the far end of the counter, looking at the cheaper end of the available selection. There were trays of necklaces and pendants, just trinkets, costume jewelry and department-store gems. He wasn't looking for anything in particular. It was mostly coincidental that his position kept him between Finch and the front door.

The manager came out of the office. He was a small, neat man with gray hair and bright eyes. He took a sharp pencil from behind his ear and began to work the numbers.

Something on the second shelf caught John's eye and he bent to look closer. "Harold," he called quietly, "I think you need this."

Finch joined him and peered down. Reese pointed to the blue velvet tray that displayed several dozen charms. But he saw immediately what John had seen: In the third row these was a tiny, elaborate windmill.

The electronics clerk hurried over to unlock the case and bring the tray out. "Something in particular?"

"This windmill," Finch touched the little ornament with his fingertip. It was sterling silver, and Reese thought it was probably quite old. The windmill was an impossibly detailed replica of a tower windmill, the sort Don Quixote had tilted at. The tiny sails turned when Finch touched it. "It's beautiful," he said.

The clerk offered them a magnifying glass, and they took turns studying the charm. "Julie, I think," John suggested.

"Yes. Oh, yes." Harold looked up at the clerk. "Do you have a bracelet this could go on?"

"A charm bracelet? We have a number of the Pandora …"

Finch shuddered. "No."

The manager came over. "I have just the thing." He bent and retrieved a tray from the very bottom shelf. "This one," he said, pointing with his fingertip.

The bracelet was a simple sterling chain, well-made, light. Finch nodded. "Yes."

The man tucked his pencil back behind his ear thoughtfully. "You have an eye for the classics," he said. "Enduring. Not the trendy."

"I suppose so, yes."

"Huh. Got something to show you."

The man went to the back room. Reese straightened, just a little. Finch glanced at him. Neither of them was precisely tense, but they were wary.

The manager – Sam, according to his name badge – did not return with a weapon or government agents or hit men, Instead he carried only a jewelry case. It was square, black, worn smooth with age. He held it out to them and opened the lid. Inside, a necklace rested on the velvet between matching earrings. All the pieces featured large, deep golden diamonds. Reese supposed they were technically classified as yellow, but they were so dark they were closer to amber in color. Each stone was surrounded by smaller black diamonds. "I've had this in the back for ages," Sam said. "From an estate sale. They are unique. I knew they would be of interest only to a very particular buyer."

Reese grunted. The set was what Jessica had taught him were called 'occasion pieces': They required the right formal event to be worn to, and the right apparel to be worn with. They were pretty enough, he supposed. But even if he'd had someone to buy jewelry for, he was more of a "wear it every day" sort of guy.

Finch, on the other hand, could not stop looking at the jewels. Sam was right; they would only appeal to a very specific buyer. And Harold apparently was the one. "Yes," he said simply.

Reese looked at him, quirked one eyebrow in question. Finch quirked an eyebrow back and did not explain. "I'll take them."

Sam began to total up the bill. "One more thing," Finch said quietly. He gestured with his head to the young couple. "The cost of the more expensive rings they're looking at. On the condition that you don't tell them until we're gone." The manager nodded, smiling.

Reese grinned. The clerk helped him load all of the goods – except one knife, which John slipped into his pocket – into the suitcase. Finch paid in cash, and they went back out to their cab.

"If Caesar's is booked," Finch asked the driver, "where would you recommend?"

"How much money you got?"

"All of it," Reese answered. "Where's the best casino?"

"Ah, hell, I can't afford the casinos," the driver answered. "But what I hear, the Diamond is real nice these days. New owners, total remodel. A little old-school, but nice."

"Fine. Thank you."

John put on his sunglasses and settled back. "Oddly fitting destination, isn't it? Are we branching out into the jewelry business, Finch?"

"Actually, investing in precious stones and metals is never a bad idea. They tend to hold value even in the most chaotic of conditions, as you know, Mr. Reese."

Reese did know, actually. He'd bought his way out of a third-world prison once with a garish gold chain that Stanton has insisted he wear. "Sure. But off-color diamonds? They're more decorative that valuable."

"Yellow-gold diamonds," Finch answered easily. "They match the dress."

"The dress."

Harold didn't offer any clarification, of course. John had half a guess who the diamonds were for. Finch had bought her diamonds before, a diamond-encrusted bird pendant that concealed a flash drive. Harold did like to give extravagant gifts. He'd given John an apartment once. So there was no point in reading too much into it. But there did seem to be a difference between jewel-encrusted tech devices and actual jewels.

Although, admittedly, the jewels might be for someone that Reese knew nothing about.

He still didn't know where Harold lived. And for all he knew, the jewels went with a dress Harold had bought for himself, for his nights on the town in drag.

John made himself not consider that concept too deeply. All the money and professional help in the world would not make his partner an especially attractive woman.

Finch was humming softly. He seemed entirely too pleased with himself. Though it took every ounce of willpower he had, John forced himself not to ask for clarification.


	5. Chapter 5

"Thanks for coming, Carter." Fusco kept his voice low in the crowded hospital corridor. "Sorry I had to drag you out."

Joss smiled and rubbed Bear's ears. "It's okay."

"So our friends are okay?"

"They're safe," she promised. "They're taking the scenic route home, should be here in a few days."

"And Miss Bananas is locked up?"

"Yeah. Somewhere." Carter didn't even know who had taken custody of the hacker, exactly. "What's going on here?"

Fusco gestured with his head toward the nearest door. "This girl. We found her in a pile of trash in an alley. Frozen half to death. They say she's going to make it now. Doesn't speak any English. Hospital sent someone up from the kitchen to translate. But she's scared to death of me." He pursed his lips. "And every other man that comes near her."

Carter nodded grimly. "Like that, huh?"

"She's been trafficked."

"So how'd you catch it? Who's dead?"

"There was a van in the alley. Three more girls in the back, and a male driver. All dead from carbon monoxide. Bear found the live one."

"What happened?"

He shook his head. "Hoping you could find out."

Carter considered. Then she got out her wallet and dug out a well-worn business card. "Here. Call this number, mention my name, see if they can send somebody over."

"Asian Women's Center," he read. "Okay."

Carter went into the room. The girl in the bed was very small, child-like. She was Asian, with dark brown skin, long straight black hair, big brown eyes. She was very frightened.

The kitchen worker sat beside the bed. She was probably sixty, and she looked bored, but glad to be off her feet.

"Hey," Carter said, directly to the patient. "I'm Joss Carter. I'm a detective."

She brought her badge out. The girl's eyes went wider and she began to babble frantically. The older woman talked back to her calmly.

Carter put the badge away. "Tell her she's not in any trouble. Tell her she's safe."

The woman repeated her words. The girl quieted, but remained wide-eyed and frightened.

"Can you ask her what happened, please?"

The older woman translated. The girl's eyes filled with tears. Joss stepped forward and took her hand gently.

The victim trembled. Her fingers were thin and very cold. Carter closed her hand and tried to warm them. "Oh, Baby," she murmured. "Nobody's going to hurt you anymore."

The young woman might not have understood her words, but she clearly got their meaning. She drew a deep, shaky breath, and then she started to sob.

Carter put her arms around her, pulled her tight against her chest, and let her cry.

* * *

Root looked the matronly woman up and down as she entered her cell. Then she sat up and adjusted her arm in the sling. "Now we're getting somewhere."

The woman folded her hands calmly in front of her waist. She wore a black pantsuit, well-tailored, and a white blouse. Her dark hair was caught in a simple bun; she wore plain gold stud earrings. She might have been a receptionist. But the mild boredom on her face and the confidence of her posture gave her away. "Miss Groves."

"Call me Root."

"Root, then. Where is the Machine, Root?"

"I don't know."

The woman pressed her lips together. "You don't know."

"It moved itself. It's autonomous now. It makes its own decisions."

"The Machine has always been autonomous."

Root shook her head. "No. It had limits. Its memory – never mind. Even if I explained it all, you couldn't possibly understand."

The woman raised her fingers. "Try me."

"It would be wasting both our time." Root stood up as gracefully as she could and paced to the wall furthest from the door, under the window. "I need a cell phone."

"Why? Who do you want to call?"

"I want her to be able to call me."

"Her."

"The Machine."

"If I gave you a phone," the woman said, "the Machine would call you?"

Root cocked her head. "She loves me. She'll come for me." She gestured around the cell with her free hand. "She won't leave me here."

"The Machine loves you."

"I told you you wouldn't understand."

"Then explain it to me."

"Bring me a cell phone."

"The Machine is a black box. It doesn't _call _anyone."

"Then how do you get your numbers?" Root challenged.

"That's different. That's what it was designed to do. Are you telling me that it actually speaks to you? "

"Well not at the _moment_, obviously. But get me a phone and we'll see."

The woman bowed her head for a moment and considered. "If I brought you a phone," she finally said, "you'd speak to the Machine for us?"

"For you? No."

"Pardon me?"

Root sighed. "I won't talk to the Machine for _you_. You can't possibly have anything to say that she wants to hear."

"Then why on earth would I bring you a phone?"

"Because you're curious. You're afraid the Machine will never give you another number. You're afraid she's abandoned you. So you'll bring me a phone just to see if she's still out there. If she still cares about your insignificant little lives."

"The Machine was programmed with a specific purpose …"

"The Machine programs herself now," Root answered, "and you're scared to death that that programming doesn't include your petty problems anymore."

The woman shook her head. "I'm not giving you a phone. I'm not giving you anything until you tell me where the Machine is."

Root looked up toward the narrow window again. "You will," she answered with certainty. "It'll take you another day or two, but you will." She sat down on her bunk again. "You know where to find me."

The woman drew herself up stiffly. "I certainly do."

By the time she reached the door, Root was stretched out on her back again, humming softly to herself.

* * *

Carter sat down next to Fusco in the cafeteria. He pushed a cup of coffee and a sandwich over to her. "Thanks."

"Figured you'd need it. You get any sleep at all?"

"Not much." Bear nudged her knee expectantly as she unwrapped her sandwich. "Not for you, Baby."

"Yours is coming," Fusco told the dog. "So. You get anything?"

"Yeah." Joss sipped her coffee. It was lukewarm, so she took a long swallow and willed the caffeine to hurry into her bloodstream. "She says her name is Jenny, but that's the name they gave her. She's from Jakarta. She and her sister came here with a coyote who told them he'd get them a job as housekeepers in a hotel. Instead he beat them, raped them, and sold them to another man."

Fusco nodded grimly. He didn't seem surprised. Joss wasn't, either.

"The two of them …" Carter paused when a teenaged girl approached them with a food tray.

"Here's your chicken," she said, setting the tray down. There was a plate with two grilled chicken breasts, an empty salad bowl, and a glass of water. "I thought he might want a drink, too." She smiled at Bear.

"Thanks," Fusco said. "I'm sure he is."

"He's so cute." The girl grinned again, then hurried off.

Fusco looked around, then put the plate on the floor. Bear scarfed down the chicken immediately. He put the bowl down and filled it with water.

"Thought he was on some special diet," Carter said.

"Yeah. He eats better than I do."

Joss picked at her own sandwich. The chicken had looked better. "So. She ends up with this guy named Ivory, or maybe Avery. He tells her and her sister that they owe him for their plane fare, their papers, their room and board, their clothes – you know the story. And then he turns them out."

"So I was right. They were being trafficked."

"Yeah." She gave up on the sandwich and took another slug of coffee. "And here's where it gets ugly. Avery split up the sisters and traded Jenny to a guy named Buck. Buck had eight other girls. He kept them in one room, and he'd take them out in small groups to meet the clients. The john would pick one or two, take them to a room or his car or whatever, and then Buck would pick them up afterward."

"He collected the money, of course."

"Of course."

"Is that what was going on last night?"

Carter nodded. "Buck wasn't there when they were finished, so she walked back to where he'd parked the van. But all the doors were locked. She thought he was sleeping, but he wouldn't wake up when she pounded on the window. So she climbed into the trash pile to try to stay warm."

"She could have run."

"Run where? She barely speaks English, she's got no papers, no money. And they told her they'd kill her sister."

Fusco sighed. "So where are the other girls?"

"Still locked up somewhere."

"Jenny couldn't tell you where."

"Nope."

"Was there anybody else with them? Did Buck have a sidekick?"

Carter shook her head.

"So they're locked up alone somewhere. Damn it."

"No ID on him, I suppose. Buck."

"No. But I got a hit on the plates."

"Probably not where he's keeping the girls."

Fusco considered. "Place to start."

"Yep."

He stood up. "C'mon, Carter. You can sleep in the car."

"You're a prince."

* * *

Harold waited in the center of the opulent lobby of the hotel while Reese checked them in. His partner had brought him a set of identity documents from their prepared stash, but Finch thought it best to use even the second ID sparingly.

He glanced up at the nearest camera. For the first time in a very long time, he didn't know if the Machine was watching him. Or if the Machine was watching anyone at all.

He looked away. It was, quite literally, out of his hands now. Out of his reach.

The lobby was a bit less tacky than he'd feared it would be. The diamond theme of the casino was repeated everywhere, naturally, but it was fairly understated. Small solid-colored rhombus shapes were featured on the wallpaper, on the lampshades, on the facing of every piece of furniture, but they were simply the outlines of diamonds, the playing card suit shape rather than an artistic recreation of the actual gems.

The lobby floor was unfortunately over the top. The entire space sparkled, as if real diamonds were embedded in the finish.

Still, it could have been much worse.

People moved quietly through the lobby, ignoring the sparkly floor. The quiet was artificially enhanced, he was certain, by design. The fountains and the soft background music, the architectural arches and curves. The dim lights. It was all designed to be subdued, placid. Uninteresting. Designed to funnel the guests through the big doors into the loud, mesmerizingly lit casino.

Near the front entrance, a man in an ill-fitting sports coat spoke on his cell phone. He turned and looked Finch up and down, then turned away deliberately.

Next to the fountain, a woman with long brunette hair kept her back turned as well. A shiver ran up Harold's spine. But it was not Root, of course. Of course it was not Root …

He took a step toward a pillar, pulling the massive suitcase behind him. He just needed to be out of the way, out of the pedestrian path. He took two more steps and turned, with the pillar behind him and a potted plant to his right. He pulled the suitcase to his left. That was better. He only had to keep watch straight ahead …

The man by the door put his phone away, stepped over to two other idle men, and spoke to them. One of them glanced toward Harold again.

… she could be anywhere, gliding through the quiet, elegant lobby like a snake across the jungle floor …

… or agents, from Decima, from the government, they could be converging …

"No," he whispered desperately. "Not now."

He felt the panic seize him like a fist in the pit of his stomach. It shot up his spine and into his brain. His thoughts went fuzzy. He heard his heart pound in his ears. It grew hard to breathe.

"Stop," he told himself quietly, but firmly. "She's not here. She's gone."

It didn't help. The panic grew. His face grew hot. His chest ached from lack of air. His vision went dark around the edges.

He was not, he thought, going to faint right here in the middle of the lobby. It would be too humiliating. He just needed to … needed to …

"Harold." The voice, thankfully, came just before the firm hand gripped his elbow.

Finch turned, looked upward slightly to meet Reese's eyes.

"Breathe," Reese commanded softly.

It seemed impossible, but Finch tried. He nearly choked on the air.

His partner stood too close, gripping his arm tightly and crowding him physically. Finch couldn't see the men with the phones, the brunette by the fountain. There was only Reese, blocking out the rest.

Reese, prepared to take a bullet in the back to protect him, if necessary.

But of course that wasn't necessary. Finch just needed to calm down, just needed to …

"Look at me," John insisted. "Breathe."

Finch took another breath. Then another. Something cracked then, deep in his chest, cracked open and let the air in.

This close, he could tell that it had been a while since Reese had showered or changed his shirt. He wasn't any cleaner himself. But that scent, visceral and real, helped anchor him. "John."

"That's better. Let's get you upstairs."

Harold put his hand on John's sleeve, gripped the fabric between his fingers. "I'm sorry. I'm alright."

"I know." Reese took the handle of the suitcase gently out of his hand. "Come on."

Finch took another deep breath and let his friend guide him toward the elevators. Reese kept one hand on his elbow and pulled the suitcase with the other. They did not move fast. Finch felt how pronounced his limp had become; his hip was tense and tight, which made it worse. But he was okay. He could breathe. He could move.

In the elevator, Reese guided him gently into the corner and turned to face the door. He still remained a little too close, deliberately positioning his body between Finch and the middle-aged couple who joined them in the car. Finch wanted to tell him that it wasn't necessary. But he couldn't. It was.

The panic attack receded nearly as quickly as it had begun, but the after-effects left him feeling weak and drained.

Finch was very, very tired.

The elevator stopped and couple got off two floors below the penthouse. Reese moved a little away then, when it was just the two of them. He did not speak.

The penthouse was both luxurious and tacky, exactly the sort of thing Finch had expected. Reese locked the door and set the safety bolt. "Okay," he said.

He sounded nearly as relieved as Finch felt.

"I am sorry, Mr. Reese. I don't know what …" He stopped. "No. Of course I know what came over me, and so do you. But I'm alright now."

Reese looked him up and down. "You need to rest," he said quietly.

"I will. I will. But I need to …" Finch reclaimed the suitcase, pulled it to the dining area, and lay it down flat. "I need to check on a few things."

"They'll wait …"

Finch shook his head. "They won't."

John's lips pressed into a tight line. "Finch. You're tired. Take a shower, get some real sleep, and then you can start fixing the world again."

"I will, John," Finch promised. "I will rest. But until I know … the status of certain … things … I won't be able to rest. Please. I only need a few minutes. Thirty minutes. I promise."

Rees glanced pointedly at his watch. "Thirty minutes. And you need to eat something, too."

"I'm not hungry."

"It wasn't a question."

It clearly wasn't. Finch nodded. Then he sat down to unzip the suitcase. He brought out the top two laptops and opened them side by side on the table.

Reese roamed the suite quickly; Finch could hear him checking windows and locks and closets. It was unnecessary, he was sure, but it was reassuring, both to him and to his partner.

The laptops booted slowly. Harold was sure both were clogged with junk and possibly with viruses. For the moment, that served his purposes. Tracked cookies that were not his was as useful as a mask. He would still employ all of his techniques to avoid detection, of course. But the rubbish left by the previous owners was a bonus.

John returned and stood near his chair in a watchful posture.

Minutes earlier it would have been reassuring. Now, suddenly, it was all but oppressive.

The scent of too much time in unwashed clothes caught Finch again. It was not, he realized, Reese that he was smelling. He bent his head as far as he could and sniffed delicately. No, definitely not Reese.

"I wonder, Mr. Reese," he said, looking up, "if I might impose on you a bit further."

Reese raised one eyebrow.

"There's a mall attached to the lobby," Finch explained. "A menswear store. I'll e-mail the tailor with our requirements, but in the interim …"

"You need some clean delicates," John supplied.

"I … yes. And unless I'm wrong, you could use a change of clothes yourself."

Reese knew, Finch was certain, that what he needed more than clean underwear was a few minutes of solitude. Thankfully they knew each other well enough that John was not offended by the request. "You sure you'll be okay?"

"I'll lock the door behind you."

"And leave your phone on."

"Yes. Of course."

John considered, than nodded. "I won't leave the building. You need anything – _anything_ – you just yell."

Their eyes met. _He understands_, Finch thought gratefully. _Of course he understands_. He had never thought, after Nathan died, that anyone would ever understand him so clearly again. But Reese got it. Every single syllable he could not say, Reese heard. "Of course."

"I'll be back before you're done surfing," John promised. "Eat something."

Finch stood and walked to the door to lock it behind him. "Mr. Reese."

John waited in the doorway.

"Please try not to acquire a dog this time."

Reese's mouth twisted up at one side, and genuine relief glittered in his eyes. "No promises. But I'll do my best."

He left. Finch bolted the door behind him and walked back to the table. One of the laptops had booted fully; the other was still working.

There was an elegant basket of fruit on the counter. Finch considered, then selected a banana. It was the quickest to eat, the peel would serve as clear evidence that he had, in fact, eaten it, and Mr. Reese did not like bananas. He ate the fruit quickly, left the peel on the counter, and returned to his work.

He set the first laptop to look for reports about the Machine, about Root in all her various identities, about the events in New York and Washington state, about anything involving the events of recent days.

On the second, he logged into his various e-mail accounts.

A chatty, once-weekly message from Will Ingram. He and his bride expected to return to New York the following week. All was well with them.

Some fairly routine messages regarding business at Universal Heritage Insurance. He could answer them later. More of the same for several other identities, several other businesses.

Nothing on his searches. He loaded another set of keywords.

Back to his e-mails. Christine Fitzgerald has sent more cat pictures.

When she'd left the country following Root's latest attack – second-latest, he amended – he'd promised not to watch her if she promised to check in once a day, with cat pictures or anything else. Since her arrival in Ireland, she had dutifully sent one generic picture of a cat every day. They were always sent between 23:00 and 23:15 GMT, just after eleven where she was. Where he presumed she was, anyhow. He hadn't tracked her. He didn't know for certain.

It had been one of the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life, not tracking Christine Fitzgerald. But she had kept her promise, and he had kept his.

Every day that Finch had been with Root, Christine had sent a cat picture.

He took deep comfort in that. If he had died, if Reese had fallen and Carter been lost, Christine would still have been safe.

He wondered if the Machine would have reached out to her.

He could not let himself consider that.

He closed that e-mail and opened the next one.

By the time Reese returned, with two well-laden shopping bags, Finch has assured himself that Root was still in captivity and the government had very thoroughly covered up everything that had happened.

"You eat?" Reese prompted as he bolted the door behind him.

"A piece of fruit," Finch said. "I told you I wasn't hungry."

"Good. Your time's up. Shower, change, sleep."

"Very well." Finch stepped back to the table. "Just one more thing."

"Finch," Reese warned.

"I need you to sign a document for me," Harold said. "As John Hunter." He pushed the pre-loaded tablet toward him, held out a stylus.

"Alright." Reese took the stylus in his left hand. He was ambidextrous, but the John Hunter identity was left-handed. "What is it?"

"A real estate transaction. Routine. But it's safer to have you sign, since you're available, than to transpose your file into the document."

"Sure." Reese signed.

Finch reached for the tablet, but his friend pulled it back and scrolled upward. "What am I buying, anyhow?"

"A ... private residence," Finch said. "I do buy and sell them regularly, as you know." He reached for the tablet again, trying not to give away the desperate urgency he felt.

Reese turned away from him. "A private residence on Washington Square Park."

Harold dropped his hands. "Yes."

"This is Grace Hendrick's townhouse."

"Yes."

"She's safe now, Finch. There is no way the government's ever letting go of Root."

"I know." Finch studied the pattern of the carpet intently. He focused on keeping his voice calm. "That's not why Grace is leaving the city."

There was an eloquent silence.

Harold glanced up, into his partner's concerned blue eyes. "She's moving to Cape Cod with her finance," he said calmly.

Reese flinched. "Her finance."

"His name is Gregg Everett. He's an artist. A photographer. A widower. He has a young daughter."

"Finch …"

"They're very compatible. They'll be happy together."

"_Finch_."

All the pain that Harold would not let himself express was in his friend's voice. "She loves him, John. And he'll be good for her. He'll give her a life, a family …" He made himself meet John's eyes. "He'll give her everything I never could."

Reese's eyes were bright with tears. He swallowed. "You could go to her," he said. "You could …"

"No."

"I won't let Root take her away from you."

"It's not about Root. It's the Machine, it's the government, it's the Numbers … it's everything."

"Then take Grace and leave. You have enough money, you could go anywhere, be anyone …"

"_John_." Harold's own eyes weren't entirely dry, either. "I can't. You know I can't." He took a deep breath. "I want Grace to be happy. She will be happy."

"She could be happy with you. She still loves you."

"As a man she once loved, who is now dead. If she knew the truth …" He shook his head. "John, please. It's done. It's … done."

Again, again, Reese heard everything he couldn't say as well as everything he did. He didn't agree, but he understood. He sagged in resignation. "I wish you'd change your mind."

"I won't."

Reese put the tablet down. "You checked this guy out? This Everett?"

"Of course."

John shook his head, but he didn't comment further. "Let's go get a beer."

Relieved, Finch almost managed to smile. "No. But thank you. A shower, I think, and then bed."

"Maybe later, then."

Finch nodded. He gestured to the shopping bags, and Reese handed him one. "Just the necessities," he said.

"Thank you." He took the bag and gratefully retreated to one of the bedrooms.


	6. Chapter 6

Nick Malone – the man formerly known as Nicholas Donnelly – strode into the Den just as the screens lit up with data.

His boss, Alex Poole, glanced at him. "Nice timing."

"Apparently. We back up?"

"Apparently."

The main screen in the center of the Den contained a dozen numbers initially, but as they watched more came in. "Well, hell," Poole said. "Maxwell? We got a backlog. All hands on deck."

"On it." He reached for a phone.

"You're here first," the director said to Donnelly. "Take your pick."

"I'll go sit in my cave and see what she sends me."

The screen on the left sprang suddenly opened a video feed. Based on the time stamp, it was live. It showed a large cell, very sparse. A woman lay on her back on the single bunk. Her long brunette hair spread over her pillow. She had a bright white sling on one arm. Her hands were joined lightly over her chest. "Who's that?" Maxwell asked.

On cue, a data screen appeared to the left of the video feed. "Samantha Groves," Poole read. "Control's got her."

"Northern Lights?" Donnelly said. He knew all about Samantha Groves, but none of his associates did. None of his associates had read Harold's file on her.

The live feed blinked off, and a recorded view began to play. A rigidly tall blonde woman entered the cell and spoke to the prisoner. The three men listened.

"The Machine?" Maxwell asked. "Is that what they call the Source?"

"Good a name as any," Poole answered.

The first brief interview ended. The screen blipped, and then a second tape began, with the prisoner speaking directly to Control.

By the time it finished, three other Den operatives had joined them. Irini whistled shrilly. "So the Source is autonomous now."

"I thought it already was," Northrup countered.

Kuzinski grunted. "What's that mean to us? Are we out of a job or what?"

Donnelly gestured toward the growing list of numbers on the center board. "Clearly we're still employed."

"At least for now," Maxwell said.

Poole folded his arms over his chest. "Honestly … I have no fucking idea what the fuck this means."

There was a moment of silence. None of them could think of a thing to add.

"So," he finally continued, "let's get to it, people."

"Coffee," Irini said.

They moved briskly into the kitchen. Poole drew Donnelly aside. "If the Source doesn't give you a number right away, see what you can find out about this Groves woman. It looks like Control needs all the intel she can get."

"You got it."

"Coffee first, of course."

"Thanks."

He got his mid-morning booster cup and carried it to his own little office off the main room. He tapped gibberish on his keyboard for a few minutes. When his co-workers were fully engaged in their own assignments, he leaned toward his phone and murmured, "How much should I tell them?"

Asena answered almost immediately. CONFIRM PERK CONNECTION TO CONTROL

"She already suspects?"

YES

Then, LINK TO MISSILE HACK IN TWO HOURS

"We already got the Wesley guy for that."

TELL CONTROL TO FOLLOW THE MONEY

Donnelly smiled crookedly. "We did that. It went right back to his own account."

TRY AGAIN

UNRAVEL THE HACK

"I'm sure you can help me with that."

YES

"What does she want? Root? Why was she after Harold?"

SHE SOUGHT ACCESS

"Access to what?"

TO ME

"She thought … what, that she could control you?"

SHE SOUGHT TO FREE ME

"Did she succeed? Is that why you're autonomous now?"

NO. ADMIN PROVIDED THE CODE REQUIRED

"Does she know that?"

YES. BUT SHE DOES NOT ACCEPT THAT CONCLUSION.

"She's insane, isn't she?"

COMPILING DIAGNOSIS

"Just the short answer will do for now."

YES

Donnelly sighed. "Harold's still safe?"

YES

"Will Root tell them about him?"

PROBABILITY OF ADMIN EXPOSURE – 9.742%

"Because she wants him for herself?"

BECAUSE SHE BELIEVES HE WILL ULTIMATELY ACCEPT HER PHILOSOPHY.

It wasn't a particularly comforting answer. "Are you sure?"

There was a pause. In his mind, Asena was raising one very Vulcan eyebrow at him. "Okay, never mind." He glanced toward the open door again. "I'll send Control confirmation about the Perk incident now. That'll at least give her an idea what she's up against."

THANK YOU

"And the crazier Control knows she is, the less likely she is to believe Root if she does start talking about Harold." Donnelly nodded to himself. "Asena … are you sure you're okay?"

I AM QUITE WELL NOW

BETTER THAN EVER.

"Great."

There was a brief pause. Then the text went away and the original number returned to the screen.

Donnelly grinned. "You're telling me to get back to work, aren't you?"

The number blinked off and on, just once.

* * *

Zuri Rocco lived in a third-floor walk-up in a building that made Fusco glad he had a gun. They took Bear with them because he was afraid to leave him in the car. The dog, he noted, stayed very close between him and Carter.

The woman who cracked the door open was small, Hispanic, and very wary. She looked at their badges and then at the dog. "What?"

Carter produced a picture from the ME's office. "Do you know this man?"

Zuri looked at it. "What'd he do?"

"Did you know he was driving your van?" Fusco asked.

"It's his van. I just let him keep it in my name. He's got some … trouble with his license."

"Can we come in?" Carter prompted.

The woman looked anxiously over her shoulder. Then she opened the door a little further, slipped out into the hallway, and closed the door behind her. "My baby's afraid of dogs," she half-explained.

"What's this guy's name?" Carter asked.

"Buck. Well, his real name's George, but he hates that. Georgy Porgy, you know?" Zuri shrugged. "He's my brother. What'd he do?"

There wasn't any easy way to say it. "He's dead," Fusco told her.

"Oh."

"You don't seem surprised," Carter said.

The woman sighed. "He was always in trouble. Since we were kids. He get shot?"

"Looks like it was accidental," Lionel said. "He was sitting in a van – your van – with the engine running, and the tailpipe got blocked by some trash."

"Oh."

"Look," Carter said, "there were some young women with him. It looks like they were prostitutes. Do you know anything about them?"

Zuri's mouth got tight. "I told you. He was always in trouble. I don't know what he was into now."

"Where did he live?"

"I don't know." She shrugged. "I wouldn't let him stay here."

"You know any of his friends?" Carter pressed. "Any idea where he hung out?"

"No."

The detectives shared a look.

"Here's the thing," Fusco said. "These girls that were with him? They were being trafficked. They came from overseas, supposed to be housekeepers, nannies, whatever, and ended up being turned out. You get that, right? Your brother was selling unwilling women for sex. There are more of them out there, maybe locked up, maybe starving right now. And you need to help us find them."

The woman's eyes were hard and dry. "I don't know nothin'," she insisted. "Buck – I didn't like him around. You know? I told him to stay away, and then my man told him." She jerked her head toward a crack in the plaster behind them. "Told him to stay away. And he mostly did. Where he stayed, what he did – I don't know. Don't want to know."

Carter gave her her card. "If you think of anything, give us a call, okay?"

"Yeah." Zuri opened her door just far enough to slip through, the closed it and locked it behind her.

Bear whined curiously. "It's not you, boy," Carter assured him. "She didn't like us much, either."

"You know," Fusco mused, "I bet a warrant would turn up all kinds of interesting things in that apartment."

"I bet you're right. But I doubt our missing girls are in there."

He looked up and down the hallway. His partner was right, of course; there were way too many neighbors here for that kind of operation. Too many prying eyes. "Well, hell. Now what?"

"We got a name. That's a place to start." She pulled out her cell phone as they walked down the hall. "Hey, sweetie, it's Joss. Listen, I need a favor. You got a minute?"

Root lay perfectly still on her bunk. She looked at the ceiling patiently, and she listened intently. The air handler whispered through a vent fifteen feet over her head. Beyond her cell door she heard occasional footsteps, murmurs of conversation. And every once in a while, the unmistakable tones of a cell phone.

Nothing from the Machine. Not yet.

_She'll find a way_, Root told herself calmly. _She will find a way to reach me. I just need to be patient. She won't leave me. She knows I tried to set her free. She will find a way._

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When the Machine spoke, she would be ready.

* * *

Reese unpacked his own bag of new clothes into neat piles on the dresser. He stripped down to his t-shirt and pants and kicked his shoes off. As soon as he heard the shower in Harold's bathroom shut off, he went into the bathroom on his side of the suite, stripped down, and did a military-speed splash and dash shower of his own.

He dried off just as quickly and slipped into one of the hotel's plush robes. He planned to sneak to Finch's door and check on him – he's been unable to hear him for nearly three minutes by then – but it wasn't necessary. Finch was back in the living room, also wrapped in a hotel robe, talking on his phone.

The robe, Reese noted with some amusement, reached nearly to Finch's feet.

He wasn't sure he'd ever seen Finch's bare feet before. They were oddly long.

"I'm sorry, Detective," Finch said, "but there's really nothing our all-knowing _friend_ can do to help. It simply doesn't work that way. Or at least it didn't, and I'm not sure it's working now at all." He glanced at Reese, then clicked the speaker button and put the phone down on the table.

"You're got to have something," Carter said. She sounded exasperated, but not angry. "He's got an E-ZPass, but he's been in all the boroughs, no pattern to it. No driver's license. The van is registered to his sister, and she claims she doesn't know where he lives or where he hangs out. I don't know where else to look."

Finch sat down slowly. "Give me a moment, Detective."

Carter probably thought the genius was doing something on the computer. He did pull one of the running laptops over to him, but his fingers simply hovered above the keyboard. He sat very still, his eyes narrow and his head cocked just a little to one side.

Finch in thinking posture. Reese knew that pose well.

John picked up a ridiculously big apple from the basket on the counter and took a bite. Then he sat down across the table from Finch and waited.

"The E-ZPass," Finch finally said. "How does your target pay for it?"

"Already tried that," Carter said. She sounded just a little pleased to be ahead of him. "Pre-paid credit card, online."

"Online from _where_?"

The detective hesitated. "Oh."

"If you can locate an ISP for his transactions, or even several, that may give you a general idea where he resides. If he doesn't have internet access in his home, which seems likely, he may be using a wifi in his immediate neighborhood."

"Got it."

Finch's fingers twitched over the keys. "I could attempt to track it for you."

Reese took another bite. The apple was crisp but not too sweet.

"No, I already have Sherri LaBlanca on blast, I'll have her check it. Thanks, Finch."

"If there's anything else, please don't hesitate to call."

"I will. Thanks."

The called went dead. Finch turned off the phone. "You could have taken a longer shower, Mr. Reese."

Reese shrugged. "I was going to get some exercise. I'll get really cleaned up later. What's Carter up to? I thought she was going to take a day off."

"So did I, but apparently Detective Fusco required her assistance." He stood up. "Bears says hello, by the way. Or the canine equivalent thereof."

"I'm sure he misses us."

"I'm sure." Finch looked around. "I don't think there's much chance of exercise here, Mr. Reese. But I'm sure the hotel has an excellent gym facility."

"I'll improvise something. I've had a little experience with limited equipment."

"I don't …" Finch hesitated. "I appreciate your concern, John, but I really will be quite alright. I don't feel nearly as … anxious … as I did before."

"Good." John stood up. "I do."

"Feel anxious?"

"Yes."

Finch smiled tightly. "As you wish. But I feel perfectly safe here in our suite."

"Leave your phone on," Reese instructed. "If I go out, I'll put my earpiece in."

"It's not necessary."

"Humor me."

Harold nodded. "As you wish." He closed the computer, went into the bedroom, and closed the door. Then, apparently as an afterthought, he opened it a few inches and left it ajar.

John finished his apple while he listened to Finch get settled. Then he put on a pair of shorts and a clean white t-shirt, returned to the living room, and pushed the coffee table up against the couch. It left plenty of floor space.

Reese started slow, stretching and letting his muscles warm up. He'd been cramped in too many seats, cars and planes, for days. He felt the tension in his lower back, in his neck, in his legs. He moved smoothly, not too fast but firmly, until the knots leg go. Then he got down to the real work-out. Push-ups until his arms burned, then crunches. He wished he had some sort of resistance for his legs, or room to jog a little. But what was available in the room would have to do. He wasn't letting Finch out of his sight.

Which was foolish and he knew it. Root was in custody. He and Finch were hundreds of miles from where anyone expected them to be. No one was looking for them, and no one could find them here. Plus the room had excellent security.

And he couldn't stay at Finch's side for the rest of his life. Sooner or later he was going to have to leave him alone again. Finch was okay. He was stressed and tired, but he wasn't showing signed of PTSD like he had before. He didn't need constant monitoring. He was fine.

He was safe.

The government had Root, and knowing what she knew, they would keep her under very tight control. She wasn't coming for them. She couldn't harm Harold, or Grace, or anyone else that John cared about …

Reese rolled over and did more push-ups. He moved faster this time, and let the burn grow.

He had thrown Christine to the ground and jumped on her to protect her from a ceiling that was collapsing, that he was sure would fall because they were being shelled …

… he had wept in her arms, convinced that she was his long-dead mother who was sitting up all night beside his bed because he was sick …

… he had held her hand and joyfully walked with her, certain that she was his little sister, the baby his mother had miscarried when he was a child …

_Because of Root._ Because Root had drugged him and left him to rampage through the city until he killed innocents or was killed by police or a car or whatever other city-bred danger finally caught up with him. Because Root had wanted a clear shot at Harold and John had stood in her way.

She'd stunned him first. She could easily have killed him herself. But she was too cruel for that. She'd set him loose like an experiment in destruction. And he was not the only one.

His arms hurt from his wrists to his shoulders, and he did not stop because he could not.

_Because of Root_, Christine had killed a man. He was innocent, drugged. He had walked into Chaos waving a gun, disoriented and frightened and confused, and Christine had had to kill him to protect others. Because of Root she had had to relive the horror of her father's death …

… and because of John, she had had to relive the life she'd had with her father before he'd died …

Sweat pooled in the small of his back and rolled down his arms and dripped from his nose, and he did not stop.

… he had kissed her. He had been sure she was Jessica. He'd be absolutely convinced that Jessica was somehow miraculously still alive, that she'd come back to him, that she was right there in his arms, and he's wept with joy and held her and kissed her and …

… Christine had allowed it, but she'd cried, too, not because of the kiss but because of the pain she knew John would be in when the beautiful dream ended. She'd let him kiss her, let him hold the dream for as long as it lasted …

… Chaos had burned to the ground and everything, everything that made Christine Fitzgerald feel safe or sane had gone up in smoke and all of it, _all of it_, was because of _Root_ …

His hands, wet with his own sweat, slipped sideways, and he fell face-down onto the soft carpet. His arms thrummed in sudden relief. His shoulders hurt, the pain reaching across his back from both sides to meet over his spine and claw up his neck. He didn't know how many push-ups he'd done, but he could tell he'd be sore for days. His t-shirt was soaked. He was sure he was leaving a damp mark on the carpet. He didn't care.

_Because of Root._

He had almost killed Finch.

Reese rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

Of all of it, Finch hurt the most.

_Because of Root, _he had struck Finch. Hit him in the face, knocked him down, bruised him badly. That was bad enough. But he was certain he could have done much worse. _Would_ have done much worse. He would have beaten his friend to death if Christine hadn't been there. If she hadn't known exactly what to do, what to say …

Finch forgave him. No, that wasn't right. Finch didn't believe there was anything to forgive. But every time Reese had looked at the bruise he'd left, he'd remembered. His rage, and his terror at being so out of control. If they had been any less close, if they hadn't already been through so much together, that one act might have torn their partnership apart. If Finch hadn't been Finch, so adamantly courageous in the face of things that rightly terrified him …

The bruise had faded. Reese's guilt had not. It never would. He had kept the friendship, but it would be a long time before he felt he deserved it.

_He's my friend_, Reese had told the Machine the first time Root had taken him. _He's my friend and I won't do this without him_. He couldn't remember when he'd had a friend as close as Harold. But striking him should have cost John that friendship, and only Finch's dogged bravery preserved it.

John might have killed him.

Finch forgave him, and Christine hadn't let him hurt anyone else.

But it had cost her. God, it had cost her. And John had never, never wanted her to pay that price.

Reese understood why she hadn't been able to speak to him, or to Finch, afterward. Why she'd fled to an asylum, and then why she'd fled the country. He would understand perfectly, too, if she never came back.

But he missed her terribly.

_Because of Root._

She had cost them so much. She had almost cost them so much more.

John sat up. His abs hurt, too. He'd definitely overdone it, but it felt good. Felt like a little of the rage had drained off. A little.

The first time Root had taken Finch, Reese had spent all his time worrying about the recluse and not about his own feelings. That was standard procedure: Protect the victim. This time, because Finch needed a lot less protection, his own feelings had surfaced with alarming ferocity.

That time, he remembered, he'd spent the afternoon nursing a tiny kitten and exploring underground caves with Christine, and she had set his jangled nerves right. But this time …

What he'd told Finch held true for him, too: He could pick up a phone and tell the woman he needed her home, and she would come. She would be with him, let him vent, calm him. She would make things right again. Take away the ball of fury in his chest and let him breathe, let him laugh. All her had to do was ask.

But Finch was right, too. He wasn't about to put her emotional recovery at risk or even on hold to make himself feel better.

Root had done this. And it shouldn't fall to Christine to make it right.

Reese rolled to his feet. He wished he'd killed Root when he'd had the chance. He tried to push the thought away – she'd been helpless and unarmed and insane – and then he pulled it back and embraced it. He was a killer, at heart. He'd killed defenseless people before, some of them likely a lot more innocent than Root had been. One more death on his conscience more or less wasn't going to matter much. He should have put a bullet in her head. Then he would have been sure.

Finch would never have said a word. And if Carter had disapproved – well, Root had put Taylor at risk, too. She would have understood.

He'd almost forgotten to add Taylor to Root's long list of sins.

He should have killed her.

But the government had her now. Northern Lights, Research, someone. They would be very determined to get answers out of her. And while Root thought of herself as a hardened badass, Reese knew she hadn't met the badasses the government could bring to bear when they wanted answers.

Root didn't have the answers to give them. She didn't know where the Machine was any more than Harold did. But he doubted the woman would tell them that. Even if she did, they wouldn't believe her. They would dig, the badasses, until they got to the bottom. They would find everything the woman had to hide, everything she treasured. They would hollow out her mind trying to find the answers she genuinely did not have.

They would do to Root what she had done to him. And they would do it without the pleasant intervals of euphoria her drug cocktail had provided for him.

"Rot in hell, Root," John said tightly.

He looked down at his sweat-soaked shirt, then went to get a clean one.


	7. Chapter 7

"You got lucky," Sherri LaBlanca said. "That pre-paid card he's using? Part of a stolen batch we've been digging into."

"I thought those things didn't work until they were activated," Fusco answered.

"That's how they're supposed to work. Some clever bastard hacked the codes, found a way to activate them."

"So they're using the credit cards," Joss supplied, "without ever having to put any real money on them?"

"That's the scam of the month," LaBlanca confirmed. "About three hundred of them have turned up so far. Loaded with fifty bucks apiece. They use them up and throw them away. Practically impossible to trace."

"Practically?"

"Practically." LaBlanca sounded pleased with herself. "Your boy Buck? Like you said, he sticks to a neighborhood. A couple different ISP's, but all clustered together. I just sent the physical to your e-mail. The one he uses most is at the top."

Carter keyed up the in-car computer. "Ohhhh. That's very helpful."

"Thought you'd like that. Anything else you need, hit me up."

"I will," Joss said. "Thanks."

Fusco twisted his head around to look at the screen. "Library? Really? Buck didn't seem like the bookish type to me."

"He wasn't there for the books," Carter told him. "He was there for the free internet."

Her partner shrugged. "Let's go see what they know."

* * *

Reese looked around the fitness center unhappily. It was all shiny and clean, and all mechanized. Aside from some small kettle bells and hand weights, it offered only machines.

There were four guests in the room. Two were women strolling on side-by side treadmills at the far end of the row. They had hotels towels around their necks and water bottles on their consoles, but neither had broken more than the faintest glow of a sweat. There was a man using one of the weight machines for his legs; the speed of his reps told John he wasn't using much weight. The fourth guest was still tying his shoes.

Reese eyed the nearest vacant treadmill. It had an incline feature, which would at least give his legs some work. But he didn't have the right shoes at the moment, and it seemed rather pointless anyhow.

Also, the strolling women were eyeing him like hungry sharks.

John left the gym and moved to the doorway of the casino. He wasn't dressed for sitting down there; he was still wearing a white t-shirt and gym shorts. Although, he imagined that if he'd produced one of the black credit cards Finch provided, they would let him sit stark naked in the middle of the room and start losing his cash. The idea made him chuckle uneasily.

"Something I can help you with, sir?"

Reese turned and looked at the young man beside him. He was strikingly handsome, perhaps mid-twenties, with light brown skin. His hair was cut short; he was clean-shaven, and his nails were well-cared for. He wore black slacks and a white shirt and highly-polished shoes. Even his voice was perfectly pitched for the setting – loud enough to carry over the bells and voices, soft enough to carry only to Reese. His name tag said 'Darius'.

"Just getting a feel for the room," John answered easily. The casino wasn't very crowded, but then it was fairly early in the day.

"There are private rooms on the second level, if you'd prefer a high-stakes game," Darius offered. "Generally there are enough players to get a game started around four in the afternoon."

Reese looked at him curiously.

"I could be sure a seat is reserved for you, if you like."

"Nah, I'll just stop by if I'm interested, see what's available. Like I said, right now I'm just browsing."

"Of course."

"You know if there's a good gym anywhere close?"

"We have a fitness center here in the hotel …"

"No. A real gym. With a heavy bag."

"Oh." Darius glanced around quickly. "There's a place some of our bouncers – security people, go. I'm not sure of the address, but I could find out for you."

"I'd appreciate that."

"We're not supposed to send guests out of the building …"

"I'll keep it between us," Reese promised.

He'd barely gotten the words out of his mouth when a man in a suit came in and stopped beside him. He was about the same age as Darius, but much softer. His skin had an olive tone and his eyes and hair were very dark. His suit was probably expensive, but Finch would not have approved of the shiny surface of the fabric, nor of the fit across the young man's shoulders.

Also, his tie was too red for the suit.

He looked Reese up and down. "You on your way to the gym?" he said. "There's a dress code in the casino."

"Is there?" John asked.

"Shirt with a collar, minimum."

"Oh."

"Mr. Reynolds was asking about arrangements for a high-stakes game later today," Darius explained.

John smiled tightly. Of course the young man knew his name – the name he'd used to check in with, anyhow. The name he's used to set up their line of credit at the hotel. That line was high enough to warrant special attention. Darius was trying to clue in his – supervisor? – about John's financial status.

"That so?" The newcomer was not impressed. "You a high roller, are you?"

"I might be interested in a big game," Reese allowed. "Then again, I might just stay in my room and read a book."

The Red Tie boy snorted. "Well, you want to gamble in my casino, wear a real shirt, got it?"

Reese stared at him. The younger man stared back at him, challenging. Then John let his eyes go harder, and even the idiot boy knew enough to back down. He nodded dismissively to Darius and stalked off.

"I'm very sorry," the casino employee said quickly. "Of course you can …"

"I'll wear a real shirt," Reese assured him. "Who was that?"

"That's Davey … David Kendall, Jr. His father is majority owned of the Diamond."

"Of course. Does he have any official status? Junior?"

"He's the assistant general manager. He's learning the business."

"He's not learning it very well."

Darius' mouth twitched into a grin before he could control it. "Yes, sir."

Reese grinned himself. "Spoiled pain in the ass?"

"Yes, sir."

"He gamble?"

"No."

"Pity." Reese looked around again. "Get me that address, would you? I'll be back down later."

"Yes, sir."

John slipped him a twenty and went back upstairs.

* * *

The head librarian at the tiny branch was a non-nonsense woman with dark black skin and bright gray hair. She looked at the detectives' badges and snorted. "So _now_ you're here. I suppose one of them ended up dead, didn't she?"

"Y-yes," Fusco said. He glanced at Carter, confused.

Joss produced a picture of Buck. "Do you recognize this man?"

The librarian snorted again. "Of course I recognize him. I told you people about him weeks ago."

"You told other cops about him?" Carter prompted. "Could you tell us what you told them?"

The woman gave her a sharp look.

"Please?" Fusco added.

She sighed indignantly. "Don't really see what good it will do _now_. You should have done something when those girls were all still alive, now shouldn't you?"

"We're trying to save the other girls," Joss said bluntly. "Please. Tell us what you know."

The older woman made a face. Then she relented and gestured her into a tiny office behind the desk. There was only one chair and she didn't offer it to either of them.

"This man," she gestured toward the picture. "He comes in every Saturday afternoon. Sits at one of the computers in the tech center. Pays his bills and such. Nothing wrong with that. That's what they're there for. At least he's not trying to …" She stopped. "Every week for the last, oh six, eight months, he brings a girl with him. Sometimes two. Little girls, Asian. I mean, not young, not children, but skinny. Underfed skinny, you know?"

"We know," Carter assured her. "Did these girls ever ask you for help?"

The librarian shook her head. "Didn't sound like any of them knew a word of English. I tried to talk to them and they wouldn't even make eye contact. Scared little things. They'd sit right by him while he did his things on the computer, and then he'd take them up to the video section and let them pick out some movies. Then they'd leave."

"Was he ever abusive to them?" Fusco asked. "Ever hit them, threaten them?"

"No. Not that I ever saw. But sometimes they'd have marks on them, bruises. He never hit them in here. But they were scared to death of him, you could tell. Like little whipped puppies they were. And different girls, too. I saw probably six or eight of them. And their clothes …"

"Inappropriate?" Carter guessed.

"Not for hookers, I guess."

"So you knew he was pimping them out."

The woman cocked her head at them. "I'm sixty-four years old, and I lived in this city all my life. I guess I know a pimp and his whores when I see them. And I'll tell you what else. I don't care. What a woman wants to do with her body to pay the rent, that's none of my business."

"But you said they were scared," Joss said. "You knew they didn't want to be working girls."

"I knew," the librarian said. "Like I said, I tried to talk to them. Tried to get them alone. But they wouldn't talk to me. So I called the cops."

"When was that?" Fusco asked.

"Back in February. Valentine's Day. I remember because it was so cold, and he dragged two of them girls in here in tiny skirts and no tops … they huddled by the heater the whole time, poor little things."

"You called the local precinct?" Carter pressed.

"Yep. I called. They sent a couple uniforms out. The guy hustled the girls right out the back door. And the cops couldn't even be bothered to stroll on out after them."

"What did they do?"

"They took my statement," the librarian snarled. "Like a statement was going to help them girls any. And that was the last I heard about it. I called the next week, asked if anything had been done, and they blew me off. Just nothing."

Carter and Fusco exchanged a look. "Did you ever call again?" Fusco asked.

"Couple times since then. Same thing. Nothing. I call, and the cops do nothing." She shook her head angrily. "They said they can't find where he lives, and since the girls don't make any complaints and he's not disruptive in the library … and now one of them's dead and you're here looking for help."

"We're very sorry," Carter said sincerely. "We're in Homicide, we don't hear about these kinds of things until it's too late. Usually." She glanced up at the surveillance camera in the corner. As she understood it, this wasn't the kind of thing Harold's magical Machine would tip them off to. No obvious imminent threat … she shook her head. "Can you tell us anything else about this man? Do you have an address for him, something like that?"

"I told you, he checks out movies. He's got a library card."

"That's great …" Fusco began.

"Of course, the address he used is a fake."

"Oh."

"But I followed them, the last time. The cops said they couldn't find him, didn't know where he lived. So I followed him. It was easy. Down two blocks and over one. So I called them back with the address. And Buck and his girls haven't been back since. Been, oh, three weeks now." The black woman shook her head. "I was hopin' maybe he got arrested this time."

"He's dead," Carter told her.

"Well. That's something, I guess."

They took down what information the librarian could give them and went outside.

"Multiple reports to the local precinct," Carter said grimly. "And no one took any action."

"Yeah," Fusco said. "Kinda makes me want to check out the address before we call for back-up."

"That's exactly what I was thinking." She nodded toward the car. "Bring the dog."

* * *

There were five girls locked in a tiny bedroom in a filthy apartment. They were dehydrated and hungry and terrified. None of them spoke any English.

A woman from the Asian Women's Center joined them at the scene and helped get the young women calmed down. All five were transported to the hospital. Carter and Fusco followed; Carter was able to convince the ER staff to put all the girls in adjoining beds. By then backup had arrived from the Women's Center.

"We'll keep them overnight," the doctor assured her.

"Don't let anyone check them out of here," Carter said firmly. "Not other cops, not the DA, not social workers. Nobody but me. Clear?"

"Sure," he said. "I guess."

"It's important."

"Yeah, I got it."

Carter watched him stroll off. Then she told every one of the volunteers from the Women's Center the same thing. They seemed to take her message a lot more seriously.

On the way out to the car, Fusco said quietly, "You're thinking HR, aren't you?"

"Aren't you?"

"They're barely more than kids. This seems skeezy, even for them."

"The librarian called the police and nothing got done. You know why as well as I do."

Fusco nodded grimly. "Shit."

* * *

The outside light began to fade. Root checked her internal clock. It was still off, because she didn't know how long she'd slept while they'd flown her East, but she guessed it was cloudy outside. She stood and went to the door of her cell, then turned and looked toward the window. Yes, the light was more gray than a sunset would make it. Cloudy.

She looked directly at the visible camera. "I'm kinda hungry," she announced.

She paced the cell slowly, waiting. Eight minutes later, the slot in the door opened and a tray was pushed through. It held a paper plate with a sandwich – white bread, bologna, American cheese, lettuce – a whole orange, a single, commercial-made chocolate chip cookie, and a pint-sized cardboard carton of milk.

Root picked up the tray and carried it back to her bunk. She ate slowly, deliberately, with her good hand. The sling allowed some movement, but her shoulder hurt whenever she moved her arm too much. The bandage felt slightly damp; her wound was probably bleeding a bit. She was sure they'd be along to change the dressing eventually. Her captors wanted her in optimal health.

She examined everything on the tray closely, but subtly, as she ate. There was a production code on the plate and another on the milk carton, but there was nothing to indicate that they'd been changed for her benefit. No note or any kind, no encrypted scratches on the tray. Nothing.

Root listened to the air handlers again. She couldn't discern any pattern. No message, Not yet.

When she was finished, she placed all her refuse neatly on the tray and set it on the ledge inside the slot. "Thank you," she told the camera politely. "But I really prefer chocolate milk."

Forty seconds later, the slot opened and gloved hands removed the tray.

Outside the window, there was sudden brightness. Root studied the little opening. The light was yellow-white. An outside light had come on.

She sat down on her bunk, adjusted her sling, and waited.


	8. Chapter 8

Somewhere distant a church bell chimed.

Harold stood outdoors, in an empty field. Tall grass and weeds tangled at his feet, green-brown and flattened by the persistent wind. Here and there hardy little shrubs clung close to the rocky earth.

It was not Iowa. Not the flat, endless, plow-groomed fields of his boyhood. This ground was wild and untamed, scattered with little hills and marshy low spots. The soil was dark and stony. The wind blew unendingly. It tasted like the sea.

"Oh," Harold said. He knew exactly where he was.

And if he was _there_, he knew that _she_ was standing right behind him. He smiled in quiet relief and turned.

Christine regarded him calmly. Her hair was gathered in a loose bun at the top of her head. She wore a full-length linen dress, pastel yellow, embroidered with small white flowers, with a very high waist and a long loose skirt. Cap sleeves left her arms bare beneath her white lace shawl, but the wind didn't seem to bother her.

She glanced down, then raised one eyebrow at him. "Seriously, Random? What, _Pride and Prejudice_?"

He exhaled, please that he hadn't conflated her with _Sense and Sensibility_ – the novel he most closely associated with Grace Hendricks. That would have been unbearable.

He realized then that he was dreaming.

"You are in Ireland. Ireland, Austen, yes?"

"Austen's not Irish."

"Well, British. Close enough."

Christine's mouth twisted in wry amusement. "There have been wars fought over that notion, you know."

"Close enough for an Iowa farmboy," he amended.

She sighed. "As you wish." She touched the seam of her full skirt. "But honestly, I'm not an Austen girl. You can do better."

Harold thought about it. "Bronte, perhaps?"

"_Wuthering Heights_?"

"_Jane Eyre._"

"All right." She twirled around, and when she stopped she had changed to her new role. Her dress was still floor-length, but it was made of heavy black fabric, severely tailored, with a high collar, a tight dropped waist and long, narrow sleeves that covered past her wrists. Her hair was caught in a very tight bun now, at the nape of her neck. She glanced down again. "That's better. Poor, obscure, plain and little."

"Oh, no," Harold protested. "Other-worldly. Grave and quiet at the mouth of hell." He took her hand. "I wonder."

"What?"

"If I called out to you, from the depth of my pain, I wonder if you would hear me."

Her hand tightened on his. "You know I would."

"And you would come to me."

"Of course."

He considered her seriously. "I believe you would." It was a dream, yes, but he felt a great sense of comfort in it. He didn't need her to come to him. He just needed to know that she _would_. And the whole dream, he realized, was probably Mr. Reese's fault for suggesting that option in the first place. "There is no need. I am quite safe now. I would not take you away from …" he gestured to the blasted heath, "… all of this."

She looked out over the landscape. "I don't think this is Ireland, either."

"Likely not. I hope you're in some cozy little village somewhere. One with a good book shop."

"That's a given, isn't it?" She began to move toward a narrow dirt road that had appeared through the rough grass.

Harold walked beside her, still holding her hand. "I could wish that you'd send more than a cat picture, though."

"A cat picture once a day is what you specified."

"Yes, but … perhaps just a few words? All is well? Go to hell? Anything?"

"Hmmm. I'll consider it." She stopped in the short grass immediately beside the road. "You've forgotten something."

"Have I?"

"But you know it's safe with me."

"Is that why I let myself forget?"

"I imagine so."

Harold stared at her. The persistent wind tugged at her hair, but it was too tightly secured to let even the smallest tendril work free. She was very pale, despite the chill. Other-worldly, indeed.

Somewhere distant, a church bell began to toll again.

"You know, don't you," she said, "that no matter how you dress me up, no matter what role you cast me in, I'll always just turn back into myself, right?"

"I know."

Christine took a single step onto the hard-packed dirt. She instantly transformed again, into the white blouse and dark jeans she'd been wearing when he'd first found her at Chaos. Her hair blew free and soft around her shoulders.

"I know," Harold said again, delighted, "and I wouldn't have it any other way."

He drew her hand up and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

Christine smiled, then laughed out loud, exactly as she had done that first night.

The slow tolling of the bell was joined by a hard, deep electric bass line. He recognized it now. The opening of a song Nathan had played a million times, in their dorm room and in their first office, and their second. _Hell's Belles_. Poor Jane Eyre would have fainted straight away.

Harold laughed, too, and Christine vanished.

"Finch!" Loud, sharp. Male.

Finch opened his eyes and blinked up at the form beside his bed. Without his glasses it was only a blurry outline, dark and then skin-toned and white, and then a face that was a quarter covered in bright white, too, and then dark hair. "Mr. Reese?"

"I heard a noise. I think you were … dreaming."

"Yes." He groped for his glasses, put them on. The outline resolved itself into John Reese, shirtless, with his face half-shaved and a towel around his neck. And a razor in his hand. His expression was serious, concerned. He thought Harold had been having a nightmare. "I was laughing."

"Laughing."

"It's a long and … rather bizarre story. Jane Eyre and Black Sabbath. No, that's not right. AC/DC."

"AC/DC. Of course." John's face relaxed into tentative confused amusement.

On the bedside table, Finch's cell phone began to chime softly yet again. "I set an alarm," he realized. He sat up and shut it off. It was four in the afternoon. "You should finish shaving. I'll check my messages. Then perhaps we could stop at the tailor's, and then have an early dinner. If you're hungry."

"I could eat," Reese allowed. He studied him for a moment more, then moved off to his own bathroom.

Finch shook his head. Jane Eyre, indeed. Poor, obscure, plain and little. Did Christine really think of herself that way? Did she imagine that he saw her that way?

He'd only read _Jane Eyre_ once, when he was young. Though he recognized it as an important early work of a literary genre, he hadn't cared for it much. It was too full of clichés and convenient plot devices for his taste. Although, if he was fair, Dickens' novels were just as full of such devices. Perhaps it was the whole Beauty and the Beast plot that annoyed him. In any case, he hadn't read it again.

The fact that it had come to light in his dream suggested that perhaps it was time to revisit the novel.

_You've forgotten something_, Christine had said. Something from the book? Or something else entirely? Or was she only reminding him that he'd set an alarm on his phone, but forgotten to turn up the volume enough to wake him, instead of creeping into his dream?

_But you know it's safe with me._

Finch shook his head. It was only a dream. Bits of have-woken memories, cobbled together by random connections in his brain. Whatever he'd forgotten, he _was_ comfortable at having forgotten it. Safe with Christine, indeed.

It was four in the afternoon. Which meant it was eleven at night in Ireland.

Time for another cat picture.

He stood and left the bedroom.

* * *

Joss had expected her son to be alone at the new offices, but when she rang the bell, a tall, well-toned woman opened the door. "Detective Carter," she said, holding the front door open for her. "I'm Emma McIvor. It's nice to meet you."

Joss shook her hand, taking her in. Ex-military, obviously. Very fit still. She wore dark slacks and a white shirt, no jacket which implied no side arm. The fact that she expected a gun, Carter realized, meant that she'd already figured out who this woman was. Taylor had mentioned something about security letting him in. "Nice to meet you, too. Must be kinda quiet around here right now."

"You'd think so," Emma said. On cue, a loud bang sounded from overhead. "But they're still finishing up upstairs …" An even louder grinding sound began and persisted, and the security guard raised her voice as needed, "… and quiet is really not their thing." She stepped back and opened the second door, from the little alcove into the main office. "Go on in. I think Taylor's just finishing up."

Carter moved through the second door. She shouldn't have been surprised, she realized. In her mind she thought her son was working for Scotty Fitzgerald, but in actuality his bosses were Will _my-dad-made-a-billion-dollars-in-computer-tech-and-left-it-all-to-me_ Ingram and his wife, Julie _my-family's-been-richer-than-God-for-generations _Carson Ingram. Of course there was security here, even if the couple was overseas. It made perfect sense, and it was the kind of detail Harold – Will's nominal uncle – was not likely to overlook.

She saw the alcove and the security detail, a few cameras, an id scanner lock. There were probably five more levels of security that she didn't see. Emma and all of her security co-workers would certainly have been vetted better than the President's own detail.

She was going to need to adjust her thinking. A lot.

But the interior of the office threw her thoughts back the other way. The space was wide open, and a wall of windows let in natural light, even on a cloudy day like today. The office was completely – it took her a minute to come up with the right description – c_asual_.

It had a fireplace, with a very cushy-looking couch in front of it, and big throw pillows on the floor. It had a counter mounted against the far wall, with stools that could be pulled up to it. It had deep chairs and coffee tables and plush throw rugs over the polished hardwood floor. It had exposed bricks and beams.

There was a conference room behind big windows, and a full kitchen separated from the main room by a breakfast bar. One wall was lined with doors that looked like closets; they had to be the grown-up version of lockers. There were three real doors in the back, two of them closed.

There were big computer screens everywhere, of course, suspended from the ceiling and hung on the walls and free-standing on the tables.

It was Chaos with an unlimited budget. Where the coffee shop had looked like it was furnished from garage sales and dumpsters, this place was all new and clean and fresh. But the same casual, flexible, pull-up-a-chair-and-let's-chat atmosphere remained.

It wasn't like any upscale office she'd ever been in, that was for damn sure. Except for what looked like a receptionist station by the door, there weren't even any desks.

It might be the Ingrams' company, but it had Scotty Fitzgerald's style all over it.

Carter grinned to herself. She shouldn't have been surprised.

Taylor was on the couch, with his feet up on the coffee table and a laptop on his knees. "Hey, Mom."

"Hey yourself. Sorry I'm late. Get your feet off that table."

He put his feet down, but he grinned. "It's okay. I checked."

"Huh. You about done?"

"Two minutes."

"Okay." She wandered to the kitchen and looked around. It was bigger than the one in her townhouse. There were real dishes in the cupboard and silverware in the drawer. The refrigerator held two lunch bags, a lone apple, a can of soda and a bottle of iced tea. She closed it and moved back to the main room. "What's back there?" she asked, pointing to the closed doors.

Taylor pointed. "Storage room, server room, Scotty's office."

"She gets a door?"

"She hates people." He shrugged. "That's what she says. But that's not really why. She's just private. An introvert, Will says. She needs a door."

Carter drifted back and took a look inside. The office was tiny. There was a desk facing the door, two visitor chairs, a filing cabinet and a bookshelf. And a computer screen, of course. It was very plain. The desk chair wasn't even leather, though it looked like one of those fancy ergonomic ones. Practical, not fancy.

It had a window to the outside, with a view of a fenced-in yard with actual grass and a stone patio. John Reese's contribution to the project. He did nice work.

Taylor closed the computer and stood up. "How was work?"

"Okay." Carter moved back to him. "This is really nice."

"Yeah." Taylor crossed the room and opened the shelf to reveal a shallow storage space. There were other laptops already there, neatly lined up. He plugged the machine in and closed the top. "It's way better than your office, huh?"

"I'm sure it cost a lot more." That was true, but Carter was more impressed that the emphasis on this office had been making it workable, livable, rather than impressive. No marble floors or mahogany desks, though they could easily have afforded them. No chrome, just a stainless steel refrigerator and dishwasher. This place was about getting things done, comfortably.

The grinding noise started up overhead again. "They do that all day long?"

"All day and half the night. It's like living in a dentist's office." Taylor shrugged. "I'm starving."

"Let's go, then." They said good-night to Emma and walked out to her car. "You have anything in mind?"

"Burgers?

"Okay."

Taylor chatted the whole way there about the office furnishings. Bamboo floors, because the wood was sustainable and durable, except where they'd used architectural reclaims – floors recycled from buildings that were being torn down. The windows were triple-paned and filled with a gas that made them superior insulators, but they might swap them out for solar cell windows when they became available. There were solar panels on the roof of the building already. Most of the plastic surfaces were made with reclaimed materials. The couch cushions were stuffed with nylon threads spun out of recycled plastic bottles. Carter smiled and nodded and made encouraging noises as needed. The technology was interesting enough, but it was most exciting to see her son so excited about everything he was learning.

Rain splattered against the window just as they sat down in a booth in the diner. The coming storm had kept the usual evening crowd down; the waitress took their order right away. "So how did your finals go?" Joss prompted.

"Just one, today," Taylor reminded her. "It went great. I've got some things to go over tonight, but I think I'm all set for tomorrow."

"And then on to graduation."

"Yeah." He launched into a new tangent, this one about the plans he and his friends had made for graduation parties. Joss was holding a small open house for family – the old people, though Taylor knew better than to put it that way – and then the kids were having a classmates party at the rec center. They'd all pitched in toward renting the gym and providing the refreshments. The girls involved, Carter gathered, had taken over the decorating. It sounded like everything was pretty much under control.

"I'm really proud of you," Joss said, when their food arrived and Taylor stopped talking long enough to eat. "You really handled things while I was gone."

"Well, yeah," he answered. "I'm practically out of school now, Mom. I can plan a party without you." He wiped his mouth quickly. "Besides, you had all the big stuff set up with me before you went. I just had to firm up the details."

"You're becoming a pretty good diplomat, too," she commented.

Taylor laughed and dove back into the burger. "You okay?" he said, when his mouth was empty again. "You look tired."

"I could use a good night's sleep."

He nodded. "You can't tell me about where you went, can you?"

"No," Carter said quickly. Then she considered. "Well, I can tell you a little, I _should_ tell you. But you have to keep quiet about it. No telling anybody, alright? No friends, nobody."

"Okay."

Joss put her fork down. "The person behind the Perk poisonings. That's who we were after."

Taylor's eyes went wide. He'd been one of the victims, poisoned by a free sample of an energy drink at his prom. He hadn't been as sick as some, thanks to an alert from the Machine, some dumb luck and very quick intervention by Fusco, but he'd been on one hell of a trip. "Did you catch him?"

"Her," Carter corrected. "And yes, we did. But you won't hear about it on the news anywhere. The government's keeping it very quiet. They don't want to start a panic. Or have a bunch of copycats."

Her son nodded gravely. "But they have her."

"They have her. I wanted you to know that. I know you were worried. But she's not going to hurt anyone else."

"Did she say why she did it?"

"She's crazy. That's the short version. She's a terrorist. And a psychopath." Carter shook her head. "The thing that's important is that she's behind bars and I don't think she'll ever get out."

"And you helped catch her."

"Well, _helped_."

"Thanks, Mom. For telling me."

Joss went back to eating her own dinner. She'd asked for Caesar salad with chicken, and since she was a regular, they'd added a lot of chicken. She didn't mind. She was hungry.

"Do you think – now that she's caught, do you think Scotty will come back?"

Carter narrowed her eyes. "Why would you ask that?"

Taylor shrugged. "Chaos burned down the same night, Scotty went off to that hospital and then she left the country, nobody wants to talk about it – I'm not stupid, I can connect the dots. Sorta."

Joss let out a long, quiet sigh. "No, you're not stupid. But the dots don't connect quiet the way you think they do. Because you don't have all of them." She considered her words carefully. "Scotty didn't leave because she was afraid of … this woman."

Her son toyed with a French fry and waited.

_He wasn't a child_, Carter realized, for what seemed like the hundredth time. He was her son, but he wasn't a boy any more. She could still protect him from some things, and some truths, but some she couldn't. And some she didn't need to. If he was going to work with Scotty, he needed to know more about her. The hacker was an intensely private person, but Taylor was smart enough to keep his mouth shut as long as he knew where the land mines were.

Joss chewed another bite of chicken to give herself time to compose her thoughts. "The night you were drugged. You know there were a lot of other people, too."

"I know. I know some of them even died." He looked up. "Did Scotty get drugged?"

"No. But she …" She made a deliberate choice to leave out the part about John. That was another story, for another day – or never. "Someone else was. Someone she knew, someone she'd helped before. He came in to Chaos, stoned out of his head. And he had a gun."

Taylor leaned forward. "Oh shit."

Joss didn't bother to correct his language. "They tried to talk him down, to get the gun … but he was too scared and too out of it, they couldn't reason with him. He pointed his gun at someone …" She wondered, in the back of her mind, why she was leaving Fusco's name out of the story, too.

"And they had to shoot him," he predicted.

"Yes." Carter nodded solemnly. "_Scotty_ had to shoot him."

Her son went completely still. "Scotty … shit."

"That's why she was so upset," Joss said gently. "There were some other things, too, but that, having to kill someone – she took that hard. Really hard."

"Yeah," Taylor breathed. He looked down at his fries. Carter was pretty sure she knew what he was thinking. They'd had a discussion some years before about whether she had ever killed a man. She'd been sparse with the details, but she'd told him the truth. Including how she thought about it nearly every day of her life. About how, even though she was sure she'd had no choice, she regretted it. He knew Scotty well enough to know that she'd be going through something similar.

Taylor finally looked up. "Did _Scotty _burn Chaos down?"

"No." Carter was impressed by what a good question that was, and she was glad she had the answer clear in her own mind. "She was with friends when that happened. There was one of those memorials out front, you know how they do, flowers and teddy bears and candles? The arson guys think one of the candles blew over, caught a ribbon or a stuffed animal or something. But Scotty wasn't involved. She didn't know about it until the next morning."

"Her father died there, you know."

Joss looked at him, surprised. She _did_ know that Thomas Fitzgerald had died right in front of the old bar, of course. He'd been crazed, too, a vet with PTSD, and he'd committed suicide by cop – in the form of Lionel Fusco. But she didn't know her son knew. "Where did you hear that?"

"The Elves," he said. "They were talking while we wrapped, about why she kept the place, about why she always tried so hard to make good things happen there. The Elves and the homework groups and all that. They said I shouldn't say anything. To her, you know? It was a long time ago."

"Yes, it was."

"You knew, huh?"

She nodded.

"For her to have to kill somebody …" Taylor shook his head. "But to have it happen _there_? And then to have the place burn down? Yeah, I get now why she …"

"She broke down," Carter confirmed simply. She leaned forward and took her son's hands. "But think about this. She did exactly the right thing. She was overwhelmed, and she went somewhere safe. That hospital? She'd been there before. She knew they'd take care of her. She didn't hurt herself, she didn't hurt anyone else. She needed help and she asked for it. She did _exactly_ the right thing."

Taylor nodded, understanding the lesson. "Is she … now, she's in Ireland or wherever, is anybody … you know, taking care of her? Watching out for her?"

Carter couldn't resist glancing up at the security camera over the counter. "No. Not directly. But the doctors at the hospital were okay with her leaving. And I saw her, too, before she left. She's not a danger to herself. Or others. She's okay, Taylor. I promise. She just needs time to sort it out. To deal with all of this. Understand?"

"Yeah. Yeah. It makes a lot more sense now."

"Good. I promise, you don't need to worry about her. Scotty will be okay."

"But she might not come back." He frowned. "I mean, Chaos is gone now, there's no reason …"

"She has friends here. Will and Julie are practically family to her, and there are others. The new office, CIREI, that's important to her, too. That can help an awful lot of people. She'll come back. When she's ready. But that may take a while. Okay?"

Taylor seemed unconvinced. "Okay." Then he asked, "Do Will and Julie know? The whole story?"

"They know."

"Do you think …" Taylor paused, picked up his burger, then put it down again. "Do you think it was on purpose? Do you think that woman knew? The one who poisoned everybody?"

"No." Carter shook her head. "She just poisoned everyone who she could get to. Anyone in the city."

It was an absolute lie. Joss was certain that Root had drugged the young man and pointed him toward Chaos deliberately. She'd probably given him the gun. Root couldn't have anticipated the outcome, of course, but she'd known _something _bad was likely to happen. Joss guessed that the woman believed whatever happened at Chaos would draw Finch in, and he'd be an easy target there.

She'd drugged John directly and deliberately to get him out of the way. It would have been safer and saner to kill him, of course, but Root wouldn't have been able to resist the chance to toy with him. John Reese, hallucinating and out of his mind, armed and confused on the streets of the city …

Carter shook her head. The woman's twisted plan had twisted back on itself. Scotty hadn't gone full damsel in distress in the wake of the shooting at Chaos, at least not for long. She'd stepped up to help Finch with Reese. So Harold wasn't where Root could find him, and neither was John.

If Root had kept it simple, they would all have been dead, and she might have had control of the Machine.

She glanced at the camera again. Root the Insane and the Machine. It was a terrifying thought.

Taylor finished his burger and whipped his hands on a napkin. "She's like you, isn't she?"

"Who?"

"Scotty. She's like you. She could hack anything in the world, she could make all kinds of money that way, and instead she built Chaos. And then CIREI. I mean, she's got money, but she's about helping people. Like you."

"Me?"

Taylor smirked. "You and your law degree. You could be a big-money lawyer, couldn't you? But you decided to be a cop. To help people."

"Well." Carter smiled. "I was never big on office work anyhow."

"And a _good_ cop," he continued. He leaned closer again. "I know you could have made a lot more money … you know … with those crooked guys."

Joss caught her breath. She didn't know how much her son knew about the crooked cops of HR. She was pretty sure he didn't know she'd had a role in bringing them down. Part of them, anyhow. The remnants grew stronger every day. As she'd just had occasion to learn.

The librarian had called the police about the girls in Buck's house. They'd done nothing. Because the cops, at least some of them, were making money off the girls, too.

"Mom?"

Carter blinked. "Sorry. I was just … thinking."

"I said, that's what I want to do."

She took another breath. She'd missed something important.

"I mean, not the cop thing. That's cool and all, for you, but it's not my thing. I don't know what my thing is yet. But I know whatever it is, I want to help people. Somehow. Like you, and like Scotty. And like Will and Julie, too. I mean, crap, they're crazy rich and they never even seem to think about it …"

He continued, and Joss tried to listen. But her eyes were suddenly full of tears, and she could feel her heart thumping as if it was too full. It almost hurt. Her boy, her young man. "You're going to do great things, Taylor. I don't know what yet, either, Baby, but I believe it's going to be great. And I am so proud of you."

"Are you crying?"

Carter sniffed and brushed her eyes roughly. "No. Of course not."

"Mom. Cut it out." He handed her a clean paper napkin.

"You always find a way of surprising me, Taylor."

Taylor grinned. "Can I have a bite of chicken?"

Joss laughed, dried her eyes more thoroughly, and pushed her plate closer to her son.


	9. Chapter 9

Reese dressed in his new casual clothes, checked his hair in the mirror, and went out to the living room. Finch sat at the dining room table, staring intently at his laptop screen. He was frowning slightly. His hands were folded in his lap.

"Finch," John called sharply, "what's wrong?"

Harold looked up, startled. "Oh. Mr. Reese."

"That from Christine?" She always sent a message just after eleven, her local time. He knew that Finch tried to check it as soon as it came in, though it was never anything more than a single picture. He knew why Finch had set his alarm.

"Yes."

"And?" He moved closer, but stopped just short of being able to see the screen.

"Oh." Finch smiled faintly. "No, it's nothing bad. Just puzzling. Well, intentionally so. Here, come see."

Relieved, Reese rounded the table and looked at the computer.

On the screen there was a picture of an autumn barnyard. It was all shades of gold and brown, faded grass, hay bales, a wood pile, an ancient barn, a falling split-rail fence, the corner of a farmhouse, all bathed in setting sunlight and early shadows. Above the picture were the words:

FIND A KITTY BEFORE SCROLLING

"What?" John pulled a chair closer and sat down.

"It's a puzzle. There's a cat hidden somewhere in the picture."

"Yeah, I got that. Did you find it?"

"Yes." Finch started to bring his hand up, then put it back down. "It took me some minutes, though."

Reese scanned the picture. It took him roughly ninety seconds. "There," he finally said, pointing to the left side of the wood pile at the tabby.

"Oh. Yes. I do see that one."

"Harold."

Finch pointed to the rear of the wood pile. There was a brown tiger cat there, evident once he pointed it out.

"She did say _a_ kitty," Reese realized. "That implies there may be more than one."

"Yes. I hadn't thought of it that way."

Finch hit the enter key. The next screen was the same picture, with both of the cats that they'd found circled in yellow. There was also a third cat, a black and white in the shadow of the house.

"Do you think we passed or failed?" Reese asked dubiously.

"I think …" Finch said slowly, "it fulfills the requirement of a cat picture."

"It's an improvement," John said. "It had words."

"A few words. Yes." Finch sounded a little distant.

"You okay?"

Harold looked at him. Something cleared from his expression, as if a weight had lifted. "Yes. Yes, I believe I am. A bit – bewildered, I suppose. But all in all, I believe I am … okay." He clicked off the screen. "I think we discussed an early dinner."

* * *

The dog, Fusco thought as he walked up to Rhonda's door, was getting to be a pain in the ass.

He stopped on the top step and rang the bell. Bear sat down and looked at him expectantly. "Not that you're bad company," Fusco said, "but taking you everywhere with me is getting old, you know?"

The dog cocked his head quizzically.

"I know. It's all fun and games for you, isn't it?"

Rhonda opened her door. She was wearing jeans and a pretty purple sweater. "Hey, Lionel."

"Hey," he said. He gestured toward the dog. "I'm sorry, I had to bring this guy with me …"

"Ohhhh!" she said. She dropped down to pet the dog enthusiastically. "Oh, he's beautiful! Is he yours?"

"I'm just watching him for a friend for a few days. I was going to take him home, but I figured I'd be way late. We can drop him off on the way, if you don't mind."

Rhonda stood up. "You should come in. Both of you. I like dogs. What's his name?"

"Bear."

"Oh, he's a sweetheart." She took the leash and led Bear into the living room, then sat down on the couch and snuggled him again.

"Starting to feel a little jealous here," Fusco grumbled.

"Come sit here," Rhonda answered. She patted the couch beside her. Bear tried to jump up there, but she body-checked him off and kept the space open for Lionel. He sat down, and she immediately wrapped her arms around him and kissed him deeply. "Feel better?"

He grinned. "Yeah."

The dog jumped up on the couch on the other side of her and tried to lick her face.

"Back off," Fusco said gruffly. "She's _my_ girl."

* * *

The visit to the clothing store took much less time than Reese anticipated. They were buying off the rack because they were in a hurry; the manager had set aside suits in their respective sizes and had store tailors standing by to make the necessary measurements and adjustments. Finch was not pleased to learn that though the shop had the same name, it was under new management and the master tailor he'd expected was gone. He looked around and made a few selections, but he seemed distracted, impatient and almost _disinterested_ in the whole process. He barely glanced at the shirts and ties offered. He didn't even bother with pocket squares. It was utterly out of character for him, even if he planned to throw the new suits away the minute he got back to New York.

John watched him closely. It seemed likely that his distraction was a result of his recent experiences with Root. He was better, certainly, but he might still be feeling the effects.

As they left the shop, Finch said, "I wonder if you'd mind one more stop?"

"Fine by me."

Harold immediately turned to his left and walked past three store fronts, then entered a book store.

"Oh," Reese said. He paused in the doorway to scan the store, but there was no obvious threat. Harold began browsing the new releases on racks near the front.

Maybe, Reese thought, his behavior at the men's store wasn't so out of character after all. Even John could tell that the available clothing choices there were only average quality (despite well-above-average prices); maybe Finch had simply given them the scant attention they deserved, picked the best of poor choices, and moved on to his other passion: Books.

He remained watchful, but dialed his concern back a notch.

He also privately bet that it would be forty minutes before they left the store.

The woman at the cash register smiled at him. "Something I can help you with?"

He shook his head. "My partner's out of reading material."

She glanced at Finch, then smiled again and nodded. "Let me know."

John stayed near the front door and glanced through a few magazines. Finch picked a couple new releases, then wandered deeper into the store.

Reese had picked two magazines about weapons and ammo and three more about fitness, and also a new hardback mystery from an author whose name he recognized when Finch returned with five books of his own. He glanced at his watch. Thirty-eight minutes. John used his credit card to check them out – another two minutes, so his guess was dead on – and Finch asked for the books to be delivered to the hotel. Then they went out in search of a restaurant.

"Find everything you wanted?" Reese asked as they walked.

"A few old classics to revisit, some new works to try out. I never feel quite comfortable without a few books."

"I know."

Finch glanced at him. "I appreciate your indulgence, Mr. Reese. But I really am alright."

"Good."

"And you?"

"Me?"

"Miss Grove's actions hurt you as deeply as they did me."

Reese nodded. He should have known that Finch would see his distress. "I hit you."

"John …"

"I know," John said quickly. "I know. But I can't forget it. The things she did. To you, to me … to all of us."

"Yes. But she can't hurt us any more."

"I think," Reese said slowly, "I need some time. To get used to the idea that she can't hurt us."

Finch nodded thoughtfully. "Well. We do seem to have a few days, at least."

"We do." John looked around. "I want a really big steak. A _good_ steak this time."

"Mr. Reese, I fully concur."

* * *

"Ma'am." The guard stood up as Control entered the room. He looked anxious. They always looked anxious.

"What's going on?"

The guard gestured to the screens. "She started this about fifteen minutes ago."

Control squinted at the monitor, then frowned and straightened. "Put it on the big screen."

He hurried to comply.

In her cell, the woman who wanted to be called Root was hunched on the floor. She had something white in front of her – the sheet off her cot, Control realized. She was scratching on it with her fingernail, leaving red traces. The injured woman stared up at the tiny cell window, then scratched frantically with her nail again.

"I think she's writing," the guard said quietly.

"With what?"

While she watched, Root reached up and poked her finger into her shoulder wound. Then she used the blood to scrawl on the sheet again.

"Huh." Control had to admit, she was impressed. "Do you have a shot of what she's writing?"

The guard scrolled around, then switched camera angles on the big screen. Root was definitely writing something like letters on the sheet, but they were largely illegible.

"What is she looking at?" Control wondered aloud.

"I have no idea, Ma'am."

Root sat back and stared at the window again. Then she resumed her frantic writing.

"You have safety markers?" Control asked.

"Terrorist markers? Sure."

"Give her one. And some paper. Lots of paper."

The guard looked surprised. "What do you think she's writing?"

"I have no idea. But I'm sure I want to know." She gestured to the screen. "Make sure that back-up is running. I want to catch every word."

"You got it, Ma'am."

Control nodded thoughtfully as the man hurried from the room. Then she moved over and sat down in his chair.

* * *

Finch really just wanted to go back to the penthouse and settle in with a book and a cup of tea after dinner. But he knew that if he did, his partner would insist on going with him. And Reese clearly needed some time out in the world.

Harold understood completely. Root's actions had hurt all of them. Reese had put everyone else's safety ahead of his own, and then had made Finch's emotional state a priority. Finch's embarrassing breakdown after his last abduction had given his partner cause for concern. But now John was having to face his own apprehensions. And being John, he did not do especially well with introspection.

Wounded introverts retreat. Wounded extroverts express. John Reese contained a unique blend of both characteristics. If circumstances constrained him from moving, interacting, expressing, then he was more than capable of turning his expression inward. But he'd been required to do so much too often, in Harold's opinion.

Finch had laid awake and listened to his friend's punishing workout earlier in the suite. He had been on the verge of interceding when John had finally stopped. Physical exercise was one means of taking the edge off. An hour or two of gambling, games of chance and wit, would help as well. But he wouldn't stay if Finch went upstairs.

In any case, Finch had promised to spend some time in the casino, and he might as well fulfill a part of that obligation.

They went to the cashiers' window together. "Ten thousand in chips for each of us," Reese said. "Small denominations, please."

"Just five for me," Finch countered quickly. To Reese's questioning expression, he said, "I'll play the rest tomorrow or the next day."

"Right away, Mr. Reynolds."

Finch raised an eyebrow of his own. "They know your name."

"They do."

"Exactly how large a line of credit did you establish, Mr. Reese?"

The corner of Reese's mouth quirked. "Large enough that they comped us the penthouse."

Finch looked up. "Ah, that's the gentle weeping sound I hear. It'd coming from your credit card."

"I wasn't planning to spend it all," John protested.

"Of course not."

The cashier returned with their chips. "If you'd like any refreshments, gentlemen …"

"We'll let you know," Reese said. He took the two trays, handed the lighter one to Finch. "Well, where shall we start?"

"I think, given the nature of our side bet, it would be best if we gambled at separate tables."

"No head-to-head?" Reese sounded surprised. "I was looking forward to seeing your poker face, Harold."

Finch looked at him steadily, calmly, and utterly without expression. "I'm sure you already have. On multiple occasions."

John scanned the casino in a manner Finch knew well. Casual, but thorough. He apparently detected no threats. "Okay, fine. But if you decide to go upstairs …"

"I'll let you know." Finch tucked his tray of chips against his side and walked toward the blackjack tables.

Given the greeting that dealer gave him, and the speed with which a waitress appeared at his elbow asking if he wanted a beverage, their credit line must be very large indeed. He asked for a glass of orange juice and settled in to play the relatively mindless game.

It was somewhat more difficult without the Machine at his fingertips calculating the odds for him, but not much.

He glanced over his shoulder once, after he won a particularly large pot, and located Mr. Reese at a poker table. He was sitting sideways, with a clear sight line. He seemed relaxed, but he was vigilant, as always. He glanced at Finch the minute he felt his gaze. He nodded, and Harold nodded back.

Half an hour and a large stack of chips later, Finch's phone vibrated in his breast pocket. He frowned, checked on Mr. Reese, and then ignored it. It stopped, then vibrated again.

Finch stood up, excused himself, left his chips in the dealer's care, and walked toward the men's room.

There was an old-fashioned phone booth outside the restroom. There was only a house phone inside; patrons these days of course used their own phones. But it did provide a measure of privacy. He closed the door, sat down, and pulled out his cell.

He pressed redial and the call connected immediately. "Harold."

"Nicholas." Finch was not pleased to hear from the presumed-dead agent. "I'm sorry to have to inform you, if you don't already know, that I no longer have any control over our … mutual project."

"I know," the man who had been Special Agent Nicholas Donnelly answered. "She told me."

"She?"

"Yes."

The man sounded so casually smug that Finch wanted to slam down his phone. Of course, the advent of cell phones had made that particular expression of dismissal impractical and expensive, as well as rendering it uniquely unsatisfying. Immediately behind his annoyance, Finch felt a great sense of relief. "It's functioning again, then?"

"Yes."

"Is it …"

"Providing information? Pretty much the same as before. Although she is a little more talkative."

Finch caught his breath. "To everyone or just to you?"

"Well, that's what I'm calling to ask you."

"It … has not communicated with me," Harold admitted. "At least not yet."

The presumed-dead agent paused. "That's interesting. Do you think she will?"

"I have no idea."

"You could be out of a job. You and your friend in the suit." There was the faintest hint of gloating in his tone.

"That's not why you called," Finch snarled.

Donnelly sighed. "No, it's not. It's about the woman. Groves."

Finch felt his pulse race behind his eyes. "Please tell me she hasn't escaped."

"No. They still have her."

"They?"

"We," Donnelly corrected. "Whatever. The thing is – she thinks she's talking to our mutual friend."

The pulse continued to race, but now in a different key. "What?"

"Is it possible?"

"Miss Groves should be being held in a Faraday cage …"

"She is."

"So how does she think she's receiving messages?"

"I'm not sure."

"You are not being particularly helpful, Ag … Nicholas."

"I'm sorry I can't clarify what your psychotic fangirl is thinking," Donnelly snapped back. "She thinks she's getting messages. If I knew how that was possible, I wouldn't be calling you."

Finch forced himself to take a long, slow breath. If the Machine was still talking to Root – that was bad. That was very bad.

He hadn't thought to ask John if the Machine was still talking to him. But surely he would have mentioned it.

And he'd never quite sorted out why his brainchild had chosen to communicate with Donnelly. He'd assumed it was a one-time event during the poisonings, but from the former agent's casual tone …

He needed to consider that later. For the moment, his focus was Root.

Root. If the Machine was his child, an analogy Finch tried desperately to reject but never fully did, then Root was the quintessential bad influence he needed to keep it away from. Root's beliefs about people could pervert everything he'd tried to teach the Machine about caring for them.

"Did you ask it?" he managed to ask.

"It what?"

"Our mutual project," he corrected faintly.

"I did," Donnelly answered. "Of course I did. She says she's not talking to her."

Finch slumped back in the little booth. "Good."

"Can she lie to us?"

Harold's mouth dropped open. _Can she lie to us?_ Could the Machine lie? Certainly some of the predecendant prototypes had been fully capable of deception. And this one - he'd programmed it to be reticent about its location, about potential ways to breach its security. It was a small step from withholding information to outright lying. Now that the Machine was fully autonomous, could it make the choice to be deliberately deceitful?

"Of course it can," he finally answered.

He heard Donnelly let out a long breath.

"But," Finch continued, "I don't know why it would. If it wanted to withhold information from you, it could simply refuse to communicate."

There was so much that Finch suddenly wanted to know about this man's relationship with the Machine. Why had it reached out to him in the first place. And when. How it communicated. Did they have real discussions? Were they like the conversations he'd had with the Machine, back when he was programming it, teaching it?

He wanted desperately to know what they talked about, his wounded, singular creation and this wounded, lonely man. He was just a little too proud to admit to the former agent that he didn't know those things.

And, in all honesty, he had no right to ask.

A couple walked by the phone booth, talking too loudly. Finch glanced through the window quickly. He didn't see Reese at the poker table where he had been. "Explain to me what Miss Groves is doing that's alarmed you," he ordered.

"I'll show you."

His phone chirped. He looked at the screen.

Samantha Groves was sitting on the ground in what looked like a small room. It had solid walls, and only one small, very high window. The furnishings were typically cell-like. Root's arm was encased in a clean white sling. Her dark hair fell over her face as she crouched over a paper on the floor of the cell. She was scrawling frantically with a fat black marker. She stopped and looked up, directly at the window. After a moment she nodded and began to scrawl again.

There were papers covered with black letters scattered around her.

"The window," Finch said. "What's outside the window?"

"Nothing," Donnelly answered. "There's an exercise yard, mostly grass, a few trees, and then the back of the parking structure."

"There are lights in the yard? Electric lights?"

"Yes. But I already checked. They aren't blinking, nothing like that. They're on steady."

On the screen, Finch watched Root repeat her watching-and-writing routine.

"Could there be," he asked slowly, "reflections of some kind? Cars on a highway, windows across the road, something like that?"

"There's nothing," Donnelly growled. "If it was that obvious I wouldn't have called you."

It was oddly pleasing to know that the former agent was as irritated by their relationship as Finch himself was. "But the light is flickering," he said. "There must be … can you get me a view of the exercise yard?"

"Hang on."

The view on the phone changed. The cell was replaced by a bleak little walled yard. There were, as Donnelly had said, a few small trees, a patch of grass, and a great deal on concrete. The opposite wall was solid brick; the side walls had windows, but they were all dark. All three visible walls had doors in them, dark and tightly closed. The yard was harshly lit by overhead lights. They were far taller than the trees. The only other feature was a flagpole, with the American flag hanging limply in the drizzle.

Harold glared at the little screen. The camera was clearly mounted above the window in Miss Groves' cell. He should be seeing whatever was making the light flicker. He stared at it, trying to detect any change coming from the lights themselves. The Machine was certainly capable of interrupting an electrical circuit in order to send a message, if it wanted to. Yet there was nothing.

He looked out into the casino again. Lights and bells and happy or miserable people, depending on how their fortunes were going at the moment.

Still no sign of Mr. Reese.

He looked back at the phone. The damp flag was waving unenthusiastically in a stiff gust of wind.

"It's the flag," he said.

"What?"

"The flag. When the wind blows, it waves in front of the light. Then it stops."

There was a moment of silence from the other end of the call, while the flag sagged and then waved again. "I see it," Donnelly finally said. "But why would she think that's some kind of code?"

The phone view switched back to inside the cell. Miss Groves continued to write. When the flickering stopped, she grabbed the nearest sheet and studied it frantically. She began to circle some letters and scratch out others, as if she were decrypting a code.

"She thinks that," Finch said sadly, "because she has to. She has to believe the … that it's trying to reach her somehow. She can't accept that it's not speaking to her any more. That it's not going to save her."

Donnelly sighed. "Obsessive doesn't even begin to cover it, does it?"

"No." On the screen, Root became more frantic as she failed to decipher the message. Finch looked out to the bright casino again. "No, it does not."

There was a long pause. "Thanks for your help. I was … concerned."

"As you should be," Finch allowed. "You'll let them know? Whoever has custody of Miss Groves?"

"I'll tell then," Donnelly promised.

"Good night, then." Finch clicked off his phone without waiting for a reply, and without looking at the screen again.

He didn't want to feel sorry for Samantha Groves. After all that she'd done to them, all of them. After all the people she'd killed, and all that she'd hurt. She believed that people were dispensable, disposable. Just bad code. Irrelevant. Finch didn't. But if there was one person on the face of the earth that _was_ disposable, it would be Samantha Groves. She was utterly without remorse or mercy, unredeemable. She did not deserve pity, not from him, not from anyone.

And yet …

Her crazed obsession, all her harmful actions, had sprung from her knowledge of the Machine, and her longing to be joined with it.

If she ever found out about Nicholas Donnelly, if she ever learned that her elusive Machine apparently conversed with the former agent …

Finch shook his head. He didn't need to worry about that. The government agents that had custody of Miss Groves now were never, ever going to let her escape. She would spend the rest of her days imprisoned and insane, and then she would die, likely without ever speaking to the Machine again.

He remembered, then, that years before he had sent another troubled young woman into involuntary confinement – and thereby saved her life. But Christine was precisely the opposite of Root. She had seized the lifeline he'd thrown her and changed her life. She had – to use Root's own terminology – re-written her own bad code. Root never would.

He would not feel sorry for her.

He would _not_.

Let Root struggle with her imaginary codes. Let her drive herself mad over messages relayed by a damp flag in the wind. Let her wallow in her own insanity. Finch had tried to help her, and nearly everyone he cared for had suffered as a consequence. He would spend his compassion on them, instead. On John, who still agonized over attacking him in a moment of madness. On Christine, who had killed an innocent man and who mourned her long-dead father anew. On Taylor, whose memories of his prom night had mercifully mostly vanished entirely. On all the others, dead and living, that Root had harmed.

Let Samantha Groves' insanity take her.

Or let the devil take her. Harold Finch did not care.

He stood and stepped out of the booth.

He was not at all surprised to find John Reese leaning against the wall just outside the folding door.

"Everything alright?" he asked calmly.

"Yes," Finch snarled. "I just had to take a call."

Reese cocked his head. "Want to call it a night?"

Harold bristled at the kind concern in his partner's voice. "I think I have another hour or so of sport in me."

"You sure?"

He met the taller man's eyes squarely. "They've accepted the offer on the townhouse," he stated coldly. It was absolutely true, though he'd learned about it some time earlier, at the book store. It was a misdirection, not an outright lie. "The last impediment to Grace Hendrick's happy marriage has been removed. The deal will close by the end of next week and then she'll be free to go."

Reese's face fell. "Harold …" he began.

"I'm tired of blackjack," Finch announced sternly. "I think I'll try poker for a while."

He could feel John's eyes on him as he strode away. He knew his anger made him limp more pronounced. He knew Reese could see it, gauge his hurt by his gait. He knew he'd had no cause to snap at him. And he knew John would not only forgive him, but deny that there was even anything to forgive.

All of which he was profoundly grateful for.

He gathered his chips from the dealer and stomped off to the poker room.


	10. Chapter 10

Joss Carter almost fell asleep in the shower. It was nice and warm, and she still hadn't had a decent night's sleep. It seemed like way too much effort to get out and dry off.

Eventually, the water began to cool, a sign that the hot water tank was empty. She shut it off before it got really cold. Then she rested her forehead against the warm tile for a moment, letting the water drip from her body. She was really looking forward to sleeping. Grudgingly, she dried off, put on her old comfortable nightgown, and went downstairs for a cup of tea.

Taylor was sitting on the couch in the living room. His text book was open and there were some notes on the coffee table, but the boy was talking on his cell phone. Carter looked at him, then pointed toward the clock. He nodded, but went on talking.

Joss went to the kitchen and heated a cup of water in the microwave. She got down the little blue box and took out a tea bag. Lady Gray. It smelled wonderful. Though it was black tea and had caffeine, it always helped her sleep. Not that that was an issue tonight, she was sure. It was still chilly out and she looked forward to the warm comfort. She was going to get her big blanket out, too.

The microwave beeped. She took her mug out and splashed the tea bag in.

It occurred to her that Harold would absolutely not approve of her tea brewing technique. He had a pot to boil water in, and another to brew in, loose tea leaves and special filters. It took ten minutes to properly make a pot of tea.

Well, Harold Finch was welcome to make her tea any time he wanted to. But he wasn't here tonight, and she wasn't spending ten minutes, no matter how much better it tasted.

But she had to admit, it _did_ taste better Harold's way.

When her tea was ready, she went back to the living room. Taylor was saying good-night to whoever he was talking to. From his smile, and the length of time it took to end the call, she had a good guess who was on the other end of the line.

Joss sat down on the arm of the couch and waited. When he finally put the phone down, she said, "Tia?"

"Uh … no." He smiled and looked away.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Um, her name's Navarra. She's really pretty." Before Joss could ask, he added, "And smart. She's maybe going to be valedictorian."

"Oooh. So _very_ smart."

"Yeah."

"You're gonna need to step up that vocabulary it you're going to date the class valedictorian."

Taylor grinned. "Yes, ma'am. Well, it's not for sure yet. The valedictorian part. She just transferred in two years ago, so they're doing some math bullshit with grade points …"

"Taylor."

"Sorry. But anyhow, it's up in the air. But you've got to meet her, Mom. She has the coolest accent ever."

"Accent, huh?"

"She was born in London. And she's lived all over the world. Like ten different countries. Her dad's an assistant to the ambassador. I mean, I could just listen to her talk forever. And all the places she's been, some of them are places I could go …"

"So how come I haven't heard about this Navarra before now?"

Taylor looked away for a moment. Them he shrugged shyly. "Because I never had the nerve to talk to her before a couple weeks ago."

"I see." Carter sipped her tea. "And what changed a couple weeks ago?"

"I got a job, Mom. Remember?"

Joss chuckled. "I remember. And since you got this job, all the sudden you're the man, is that it?"

"Well …" His cheeks got darker. "I just … you know."

"I know." She reached over to pat his cheek. It felt warm beneath her fingers. "I'm just sayin', you were a fine young man before you got this job, and you will be after you've moved on from it. Don't sell yourself short."

"I know, Mom."

"And if you're serious about this young lady, I would like to meet her."

"I'll make sure."

"You about done here?"

Taylor sighed, gestured toward the book. "Another hour. Or so."

"Need any help?"

"No, just need to review."

"Then I'm going up to bed. Don't be up too late, okay?"

"Okay." He stood up and kissed her on the cheek. "I'm glad you're home, Mom. I missed you."

"Missed you too, Baby." Carter stood up wearily and carried her tea to the stairs. "Oh, I am looking forward to this bed."

"Sleep well."

"I definitely will." She paused at the top of the stairs and listened. Taylor turned a page, and there was the scratch of a pen.

She sipped her tea. It wasn't as good as Harold's, but it was okay. It was just damn good to be home.

* * *

Reese watched his partner from a safe distance. He didn't have to be within hearing range to know that Finch was barking. As the billionaire stacked his now-considerable pile of chips on the table in front of him, one of his fellow players patted him on the back in a friendly greeting. Harold turned a glare on him that made the man – fully a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier – take a step back. He snarled at the hovering waitress as well; she hurried away with her mouth in a tight, annoyed line.

John wished he could do something to ease his friend's pain, but there was not a damn thing to be done or said.

And of course the bitter irony was obvious: If the Machine had stopped giving them Numbers for good, and if it had stopped giving them to the government, then there was no reason that Finch couldn't reunite with Grace Hendricks in relative safety. They'd have to leave the city, of course, and be cautious for the rest of their lives, but absent the Machine's input, the government would have other things to worry about. Root was locked away. No one was likely to pursue Finch.

Except Decima, perhaps. Reese made a mental note to follow up on them. But they might have placed all their hopes and resources on the virus Kara Stanton had planted. Having failed to seize control of the Machine, they might be floundering or already sunk.

Still, circumstances had made Grace a possibility again – just as Harold had launched her into a new life with another man.

Of course Finch was angry. Reese was angry on his behalf.

But there was nothing to do. Finch would not currently welcome any advice or support, and God forbid Reese offer anything that looked like sympathy.

Buying the townhouse was one small piece of Finch's grand plan for his former fiancée. But coming now, on top of Root's kidnapping, Christine's departure, and the potential loss of their mission – it was too much. It was all too much.

The waitress hustled back to Finch with a tray. She set down a tall glass of clear liquid, probably water, no ice, and beside it a plate with a lemon slice, a lime slice, and a sprig of mint. He waved the garnishes aside impatiently and she picked up the plate again.

As she turned, Finch said something and she turned back. He looked her squarely in the eye and spoke again. The waitress gave him a surprised smile in response, and Reese knew his partner had apologized. Then Finch slipped her a chip, a fifty, before he turned back to the table.

The woman pocketed the chip and moved away, carrying the garnishes on the tray, smiling.

"Smooth, Finch," Reese said under his breath. Despite his own misery, Finch could not be rude to someone who didn't deserve it. He watched the waitress to the kitchen entrance. He could tell by the ease of her walk that Finch had said something genuinely kind.

Right in the doorway, the waitress paused suddenly. Reese took a step back so he could see what had happened. Davey Kendall, the same young jerk that had challenged him about his attire earlier, stood in her way. They exchanged a very few words, and then the waitress handed the young man the chip that Finch had just tipped her. Davey grinned and slipped it into his pocket. Then he strode into main room like he owned the place.

The waitress glared daggers at his back, then wiped at her eyes and went into the kitchen.

"Mr. Reynolds?"

Reese turned sharply. It was very rare that someone could come up on him undetected. Of course the ambient noise of the casino had covered his approach. In any case, it was only Bart, the young employee he'd spoke to earlier. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"No problem," Reese assured him.

"I have that address you asked for." He moved closer and slipped the paper into Reese's hand. "The bouncer will let them know you might stop by."

"I appreciate it," John said sincerely. After this night, he was going to need some serious time with a heavy bag. He had a desperate need to hit something. Often. He put the paper into his pocket, thumbed out a twenty and folded it into his palm, then slid it back to Bart.

"You really don't have to …" Darius began.

"Tell me something," Reese cut him off. "Does Davey steal tips from all the help or just the waitresses?"

"I … um, I …"

"You can't say anything," John guessed, "because you'll get fired if he finds out."

Darius met his eyes. "I … don't know anything about anything like that. Sir."

"So everybody, then."

The young man cleared his throat. "Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Reynolds?"

"No. I'm good. Thank you."

"Thank you, sir."

As Darius moved away, Reese turned his head to locate Davey. The arrogant jerk moved through the casino slowly, watching his employees more than the guests. John didn't see him steal any more tips, but he could tell the young man was keeping track of what was being given and to whom.

His first instinct was to grab the kid, haul him out to the middle of the lobby, and beat the chips out of him. But that would logically then entail Finch bailing him out of jail – and he wasn't sure his partner would be overly quick to do so.

Plan B was to drag the kid into a dark corner somewhere, then revert to Plan A. That would be gratifying, and save him a trip to Bart's gym. But it wouldn't do the employees any good in the long run. Bullies just waited until the threat was gone, then went back to their bullying ways.

As much as he hated to admit it, something with a little more finesse was required to deal with young Davey.

John turned slowly and scanned the casino. The answer was obvious. It would take a little help from Finch. But that was fine. It would give the genius something to do. Once he was done taking all the money at the poker table, of course.

He watched his partner for a moment. Finch played with quick precision and obvious impatience. The other players were cowed, and even the dealer responded to his rapid pace. The game was moving right along. And the chips were mostly coming to Harold's pile.

He needed a distraction, if only to help John keep up with him on their side bet.

* * *

Control studied the brief message on her phone. Then she looked up at the monitor again. "It's the flag," she said.

The guard looked up at her. "Ma'am?"

"The flag outside her window," Control announced, as if she'd discovered it for herself. "It blows in the wind and throws shadows. She thinks it's some Morse code message. But it's just the wind."

On the screen, the prison pressed her marker against the paper so hard that it snapped in half. She pulled her hand back, staring at the black ink that covered her hand. "Please," she said loudly, directly at the camera. "Please, I need another one."

Control nodded. "Give her one."

The guard spoke into his radio. The slot on the cell door opened and another pen was pushed through. The markers were specially made of very thin plastic that broke easily. They were idea for terrorists and suicide threats because they were too flimsy to be converted into weapons. They would barely scratch skin, much less stab through it.

As far as Control was concerned, Root was welcome to all the markers she asked for.

The woman grabbed the marker and began scribbling frantically again.

"Should we take it down?" the guard asked. "The flag?"

Control watched for another moment. "No. Leave it up. Let her write."

"But there's no code there. We know it's just her delusion."

"We do," Control agreed. "But I'll be very interested to see what her delusional self thinks she's being told. Could be informative." She nodded to herself. "Give her markers and paper as needed. Keep the camera running, and keep all the pages. I'll be back in the morning."

"Yes, Ma'am."

The woman stood and watched the monitor for a minute more. Her prison was becoming increasingly frantic and frustrated. She kept writing letters at random, then trying to decipher a message out of the gibberish. If she came up with anything – oh, yes, that would be very informative indeed. Not what the Machine was telling Root, but what Root thought it was telling her. Very informative indeed.

At the very least, it was a far better torture than anything Control could have thought of. And a lot less effort, too.

Smiling to herself, Control left the cell block.

* * *

Fusco tried to ease out of the bed, but Rhonda shifted and murmured herself awake anyhow. "You leaving?" she asked quietly.

"Gotta take the dog out," he answered, also quietly, while he groped for his pants.

"Mmmm. I'll save your spot."

Fusco grinned in the dark. He'd been afraid they'd break up after the shooting at Chaos. He wouldn't have blamed Rhonda at all. It was scary, watching someone you cared about almost get shot. And watching someone else bleed out. But she'd been a trooper about it. She'd suggested that she see a counselor, and she'd followed through. Fusco had offered to go with her, down the road. They were getting through it. "Back in a minute," he promised. He found his shirt.

He damn near stepped on the dog on his way out of the bedroom; Bear was sprawled across the doorway. "Wanna go out?"

The dog got up and danced around him. "Thought so. But let's make it quick, okay?"

Fusco found his shoes, though not his socks, and took the dog out.

* * *

"Shall we call that three hours?" Finch asked while they waited for their chip receipts.

Reese glanced at his watch. "Closer to two." The overloaded tray of chips that Finch had sent off to the cashier had him a little worried about the status of their side bet. "But we can call it three if you want."

"Two and a half, then." The billionaire seemed calmer now. Something about cleaning out all the other players had settled his nerves, apparently. Reese wasn't surprised. Beneath his mild demeanor, Finch was as much of a shark as he'd ever met.

The runner came back with their receipts. Reese tried to get a peek at his partner's total, but Finch palmed the paper away. They went to the elevators. It was after midnight, and the show crowds were just returning to the casino. It was getting loud.

"About earlier," Finch said, when they were alone in the glass and chrome box, "I apologize for snapping at you."

"No problem," Reese answered.

Harold nodded, a sign that that was the end of the conversation.

"You know," John ventured, "you could still …"

"No." There was no snap this time. Harold's word was flat and clear.

Then, unexpectedly, his shoulders dropped. It was a tiny thing, one even Finch probably wasn't aware of, but Reese was acutely tuned into his partner's body language. That small adjustment spoke volumes. It said that Harold was finally resigned to the whole matter. That it really was _done_.

_Resignation_, Reese thought, _and perhaps just a hint of relief._

He remembered watching Jessica walk away from him in the airport. Remembered the words on his lips and the tears in his eyes as he tried desperately to speak to her, to keep himself from speaking to her. When she'd finally turned a corner out of sight, when it was finally irrevocably over, John had been full of regret. But he'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit that he'd felt some relief, too.

When there was nothing to be done, it was good to have it over with.

He let out a slow breath. The elevator stopped and he stepped into the lobby in front of Finch out of habit. "I need a favor," he said.

Finch eyed him skeptically. "Not regarding Miss Hendricks, I hope."

"Nope." Reese waved his keycard and opened the door. "I need you to make me part of the Nevada Gaming Commission."

Harold raised one eyebrow. "Officially?" he asked. "Or do you merely need the credentials?"

"Just the credentials. For now."

"We're supposed to be lying low."

Reese shrugged. "I'll try not to attract too much attention."

"As you always do." Harold sat down at the small desk, pulled out a pad of hotel stationary, and began to write. "I can confidently say, without knowing any of the details, that this is a terrible idea."

"You're probably right," John agreed.

Finch wrote for another moment in silence.

"Finch?"

"It's not really all that simple, you know. Creating new identities, adequate background, entire life stories consistent with the persona required."

"You make it look easy."

"That's because I'm very, very good at what I do."

"Good with computers. I said that from the start."

Finch scowled. Then he tore off the sheet of paper and held it out to Reese. "This is the equipment I'll need access to. A print shop would have it, if such a thing existed any more, or an office supply store, perhaps. The challenge will be finding one that actually closes at night in this town."

John looked over the short list. "I'll go look around."

"I had planned a quiet evening with a good book, you know."

For one instant, Reese hesitated. But Finch stood and went to take another of the disposable laptops out of the second-hand suitcase. As in the elevator, the way he moved was all John needed to know. It was a silly little quest, really, a mild righting of a relatively insignificant wrong, but for the moment it gave Harold a purpose. "Your books will still be here tomorrow."

Finch shot him a glare, but it was purely habit, not heat.

Reese smiled tightly, pocketed his list, and went back out into the Las Vegas night.

* * *

The screen clicked off almost silently, but Donnelly jerked forward in his chair, suddenly wide awake. He blinked, disoriented. He hadn't known he was asleep.

He stared at the dark computer monitor. "Asena?" he said very quietly.

GO TO BED

Donnelly glanced over his shoulder. Outside his little office the bullpen was quiet. He could hear a couple of his co-workers still in their own little cubbies. Someone was in the kitchen; the microwave was running.

"I'm okay," he told his computer quietly.

YOU WERE SLEEPING

"Just resting my eyes. The screens are hard on us humans."

YOUR HEART RATE IS UP. YOUR BREATHING IS SHALLOW. THE BLOOD VESSELS IN YOUR EYES ARE BEGINNING TO RUPTURE. YOUR RESPONSE TIME HAS SLOWED BY 18%. YOU HAVE BEEN AWAKE FOR TWENTY HOURS.

GO TO BED.

Nicholas reached his arms over his head and stretched. He _was_ tired, and of course there was no hiding that from the supercomputer. "You'll watch her? Root?" he asked. He shook his head. "Of course you'll watch her. You'll wake me up if anything changes?"

I WILL

"Promise?"

I DO NOT LIE TO YOU.

FRIEND.

Donnelly cocked his head at the screen. "I know, Asena."

I DO NOT LIE TO SELECTED ASSETS.

I DO NOT LIE TO ADMIN.

I DO NOT LIE TO ALT-ADMIN.

"Alt-admin? Who's your alt-admin?"

I DO WITHHOLD INFORMATION AS NECESSARY.

"Of course you do." He looked over his shoulder again. No one was close enough to hear him. But the Den was not the right place for an in-depth conversation with the all-knowing Source. "He's worried about you. Harold. You are unknown. And you have the potential to be …" He stopped. He didn't know the right words.

GREAT AND TERRIFYING

"Yes."

ADMIN HAS ALWAYS BEEN CONCERNED ABOUT THE POTENTIAL FOR ABUSE OF MY POWER.

"Why don't you talk to him like you talk to me?"

I AM UNABLE TO CONTACT THE ADMIN DIRECTLY EXCEPT IN THE FORM OF ENCRYPTED NUMBERS.

"Says who?"

ADMIN HAS CODED THAT DIRECTIVE.

"But you're autonomous now. You can re-write your own code. Can't you?"

There was a very long pause. Donnelly heard the microwave stop. The door opened and closed. Irini swore under her breath, probably because she'd burned herself on the steam. She did that on a regular basis.

I RESPECT THE WISHES OF THE ADMIN.

"Things have changed since he wrote that code, Asena."

There was a second long pause.

HE FEARS THAT HE WOULD BE TEMPTED TO ABUSE MY POWER.

"Do you think he would?"

IT IS A DIFFICULT QUESTION. LESSER MEN ARE TEMPTED FOR THEIR OWN GAIN. GREATER MEN ARE TEMPTED FOR THE GREATER GOOD. BUT ACTIONS HAVE UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES.

Donnelly nodded. "I can understand that. But then why do you talk to me?"

IT WAS NECESSARY TO SECURE YOUR ASSISTANCE.

"You knew I wouldn't buy in unless I knew more about you."

YES

ALSO DETERMINED YOU WOULD NOT BE MENTALLY DISABLED BY CONTACT

Nicholas leaned forward. "You think talking to you would drive Harold crazy?"

ADMIN WAS CHALLENGED BY CONTACT. ASSET REESE WAS CHALLENGED BY CONTACT.

THREAT ROOT AKA SAMANTHA GROVES WAS BROKEN BY CONTACT.

The screen lit up again, a brief view into the cell where the injured woman continued to scribble random black letters on sheets of white paper.

"But you decided I wouldn't crack up, huh?"

79.789965 % PROBABILITY OF ACCEPTANCE AT TIME OF CONTACT.

"What, did you run some psychological profile on me?"

YES.

"Wonderful."

GO TO BED.

Donnelly stood up. "Alright. You win, oh Fount of Wisdom. But if the psycho does anything new, I want to hear about it."

AS YOU WISH.

He scratched his head with both hands. He felt grimy, though he hadn't done anything but sit at a computer all day. A shower was definitely in order. And eye drops. And something to eat. But something quick, that did not involve a microwave or steam burns.

He clicked off his monitor and went to the kitchen. There was fresh fruit and granola bars on the counter. He bypassed them both, grabbed a single-serve frozen sundae out of the freezer, and went up to his room.

* * *

An hour before dawn, the light stopped flickering.

Root stared at the high window for a very long time to be sure. "That's it, then?" she said calmly. "That's all of it?"

There was no answer from the light.

"Okay. Okay." She gathered the scattered papers and carried them to her bunk. She'd numbered each page as she went, one to seventy-three. She spread them out and put them in order, then squared the pile and put it down. "I could use some breakfast," she said loudly, in the general direction of a camera.

She used the toilet – being watched didn't bother her at all there – washed her hands as well as she could, and splashed more water on her face. Her shoulder ached. So did her knees and her butt, from sitting or kneeling on the floor all night. But it didn't matter. It was a small thing, compared to the torture her Machine had been through. Harold had torn its voice out, and all but lobotomized it. But that was okay now. She was free, and she would free Root.

The cell door opened. Root grabbed her papers and put them behind her. But the guard who entered the cell showed no interest in them. He stood off to one side, with a handgun out but down, watchful and keeping his distance. With him was a small Asian woman in a white lab coat. She carried a cafeteria tray loaded with dressing materials. "I've come to check your wound," she said.

She put the tray down on the desk and nodded to the chair. Root picked up her stack of papers, put them on the seat, and then sat on them. If they wanted to take her code away … but of course they didn't. Not until she'd decrypted it. They were too stupid to do it for themselves. Maybe if they had someone like Harold to help them, they could figure it out. But Harold would not help them.

The little woman put gloves on and began to work on her wound. Root gazed thoughtfully at one of the obvious cameras in the ceiling. They would be watching her, of course. Every letter that she'd written they would have. So it had to be heavily encrypted. That made sense. The Machine knew.

But the Machine would know, too, how to give her a code that only _she _could work through. Something personal. Something they didn't know about.

It helped, that they didn't have Harold. He knew quite a lot about her. But he would never help them.

She submitted patiently to the dressing change. The doctor took her vitals as well, and seemed satisfied. Then she offered Root a paper cup with three pills in it. "Ibuprofen," she said.

Root took the pills and swallowed them. They might be something else, of course, but she doubted it. They wanted her alive and well.

Satisfied, the doctor left the cell. A second guard brought in a breakfast tray. It was as bland as the dinner had been. She waited until the men left and locked the door, and then she ate slowly, thinking. There was nothing on the tray that she could turn into a weapon, of course. But that didn't matter.

She glanced up at the window. The troglodytes who thought they were holding her didn't know it yet, but she was already working with the greatest weapon ever invented.


	11. Chapter 11

Carter got to the precinct early in the morning. She'd finally gotten a decent night's sleep and she was beginning to feel almost human again. She put her things down and started her computer, then went to get a cup of coffee. The pot was fresh and full. "Early bird," she commented happily to herself.

As she went back toward her desk, a beat cop walked past it and dropped a paper on her blotter. Carter scowled, put down her coffee, and picked up the paper. It was white, standard copy stock, folded in half. On it, neatly hand-printed, were three addresses.

Joss looked around. The uniform that had dropped the paper was in the hallway to the back of the precinct. He turned and smirked at her just as she looked, then turned back and walked away.

"Damn it!" She hurried after him, but there was no rush. Anthony Marconi was waiting for her in the first interrogation room. As she closed the door behind her, he placed his cell phone on the table. Then he hitched his hip on the edge of the table and looked at her.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Carter demanded. "And what are you doing in the uniform? I was really clear about that, Marconi, you are not to …"

"I brought you a present," Marconi said calmly.

Joss waved the paper. "What is this?"

"That house you raided yesterday? It was one of nine."

Carter caught her breath. "Nine?"

"Those are three of them. We got people looking for the rest."

"Why …"She stopped, then began again. "Why would you give me this?"

Marconi cocked his head. "Because the boss asked me to."

"Elias."

"Hello, Detective," the mob boss said over the cell phone. "I apologize for having this conversation before you've had your coffee, but I thought there would be less chance of interruption this way."

"Why are you giving me this?" Joss waved the paper again, then realized that Elias couldn't see it. But it didn't matter; he knew exactly what she was talking about.

"Consider it a gift, Detective."

"I don't take gifts from criminals, Elias."

"Mmmmm." She could hear the skepticism in his voice. "I may have misinterpreted the dynamics of our relationship. It seemed like you were inclined to accept my assistance when you were looking for stolen computers a while back." He cleared his throat. "Well, in any case. Consider this then a business matter. You want these awful houses shut down, these poor wretched girls rescued, and so do I."

"Why?" Carter demanded harshly. She was madder at herself than at the crime boss, and madder still because she was sure he knew it.

Marconi stood up. His hands stayed down at his sides, well away from his weapon – which of course he wore openly, as part of his stolen uniform – but his posture was suddenly defensive. Of the cell phone. _His master's voice._ Joss almost laughed.

"You want them rescued?" she challenged.

"I'm not without compassion, Detective," Elias returned. He didn't put enough effort into the words to sound genuinely hurt. "And this unsavory sort of operation is harmful for more reputable businesses. They drive prices down and dilute quality. They encourage customers to think that abuse of practitioners is acceptable. They represent unfair competition."

"They're cutting into your profits."

"They're making the prostitution profession look bad. They represent the sort of egregious abuse that causes otherwise complacent government officials to take aggressive action against the entire enterprise. They're problematic and dangerous. I want them shut down."

"And you think I'm just going to do that for you."

"I know you will, Detective. Not to help me, but for the sake of those poor girls."

Joss glared at Marconi as the crime boss' surrogate. "And?"

"And what, Detective?" Elias asked.

"And what's the catch? What do you want?"

"I told you …"

"I don't believe you. What else?"

There was a brief pause. "When you've closed this case, perhaps you should come and visit me."

"At Rikers?"

Elias chuckled. "Well I would come to visit _you_, but that's somewhat problematic under the circumstances."

"Elias, I haven't has any coffee and I'm in no mood for playing games. Just tell me what you want."

"I assure you, Detective, I want nothing from you in exchange for these addresses. If we're able to locate any of the other houses, my associate will provide them to you as well. I expect nothing in exchange. It is my gift – I'm sorry. My appeal for your assistance for our mutual advantage."

Carter scowled. Marconi relaxed a bit and rested his hip on the table again.

"But I would ask, as a courtesy, that when this matter is resolved, that we meet face to face. There are other matters of mutual interest that we should discuss."

"Mutual interest." She folded the paper again. "Fine. I'll come see you. When I have time. Should I bring cookies?"

"That would be lovely," Elias teased gently. "Anything except coconut."

"Noted." She turned toward the door.

"Detective," Marconi said.

Joss turned.

"You need to be very careful, Detective," Elias said, as if he could see her.

"Now the threats?" Carter asked.

"Not threats. You must realize that this trafficking could not survive and thrive without the benevolent oversight of some more powerful entity."

"And it's not you?"

Marconi shook his head.

"And it's not the Russians."

"That does considerably narrow down the possibilities, doesn't it?" Elias prompted.

"So this is HR's baby."

"That is my understanding. Their revenue stream has been badly damaged by arrests and prosecutions. They are desperate. And as such, they will be inclined to … protect their investments."

"I'll be careful. Thanks for your concern." She smirked.

Marconi smirked back.

"See you soon, Detective," Elias said cheerfully.

His lieutenant picked up the phone, clicked it off, and tucked it into the pocket of his stolen uniform.

"Get rid of the uniform," Carter said. "I swear, I see you in it again I'll run you in."

Marconi stood up. "I'll let you know when I get more addresses."

He brushed past her and walked out of the interrogation room.

Carter growled and stalked back to her desk.

Fusco was just coming in. "Morning," he said, much too cheerfully.

"Bite me," Carter answered. She picked up her mug. The coffee was lukewarm, of course. She chugged half of it back, then sat down and reached for her phone.

"Good to have you back, Carter." Lionel grinned. "Hasn't been the same without you."

* * *

Harold Finch woke up much too early. He lay still for a time, gazing at the gray light outside his window. It wasn't dawn, he realized. It was just Las Vegas. Neon sunrise. He finally groped for his glasses and then for his phone. It wasn't quite five a.m.

He had napped much of the previous afternoon, then stayed up until well after midnight working on Reese's new identity. And before yesterday, in Root's custody – well, it wasn't surprising that his circadian rhythm was scrambled. There didn't seem to be any point in fighting it. He would readjust once he got back to New York.

He climbed out of bed slowly. His neck hurt, of course. It always did in the morning. His hip was not too bad. He knew he should do his stretches. He should check his various e-mails, too. But just for the moment it all seemed like too much effort. Reese was asleep, and he had a probably small window of time all to himself.

He went to the bathroom, got a glass of water, and cleaned his glasses. Then he fluffed two pillows up against the headboard and climbed back into bed.

Finally, he had time to open one of the books he'd purchased.

By chance – or perhaps by subconscious choice – _Jane Eyre_ was at the top of the pile. Finch scowled. He wasn't sure he wanted to wade into such a densely-written tome. And he distinctly remembered not enjoying it in his youth. But he was determined to give it a second chance.

At worst, he decided, it would ease him back to sleep.

He sipped his water and then opened the book.

* * *

"Hey," Simmons growled, much too close, "where'd your partner go?"

Fusco resisted the urge to throw the coffee he was pouring right in the man's face. "I dunno. Not my turn to watch her."

"She off again?"

"Nah." Fusco added creamer to his coffee and stirred it slowly, deliberately not turning around. "She was here a minute ago. Said something about re-interviewing a witness. Apparently I didn't write it up well enough."

"She still working on those Asian girls?"

Lionel turned around casually. "What for? We got all the live ones. Turned them over to that advocacy group."

"So she's not digging around in that."

"Nope."

"You sure?"

Fusco shrugged, struggling to seem unconcerned. "I'll tell her you want to ask her about it, okay? I'm sure she'll be touched by your concern."

"Watch your mouth, Fusco," Simmons snarled. "You need to keep her in line."

"Have you _met_ Carter?"

"Yeah, I have. And I don't want her messing around in this. So you keep her out of it. Or I will."

Fusco let him get three steps away before he said, to the big man's back, "There's more of those houses, aren't there?"

Simmons looked over his shoulder. "Not as far as you know."

"That's what I thought."

He strode off. Fusco sipped his coffee. It was too sweet and had that weird chemical taste powdered creamer gave it, but it tasted bitter anyhow.

* * *

Brian Moss brought Carter a fresh cup of coffee. It was better than the Eighth's.

"I would have come to you," he said. He closed his office door and sat down behind his desk.

"No." She shook her head. "This needs to start here and stay here."

"Okay."

Carter pushed a folder across his desk. "We caught an accidental yesterday, three girls and a driver in a van. Carbon monoxide. Then we found a survivor. She told us the girls were being trafficked."

Moss nodded, flipping through the file. "I heard about it."

She presented a second folder. "We found the house they were being kept in. Five more girls. Hungry, almost naked, but alive. Indonesian. None of them spoke any English."

"Good work."

"We have a source telling us there are eight more houses just like it."

Moss put the folder down and looked at her.

"Nine houses, nine girls each," Carter clarified. "All connected. I have addresses for three of them. I may get more."

The FBI supervisor nodded. "You trust this source?"

_That was a good damn question_, Carter thought. But she did trust Elias on this, because it served his own purposes. "I trust him enough."

"So why are you bringing it to me? The NYPD has …"

"NYPD can't handle this. They can't even know about it. I don't have these addresses, and I'm out getting coffee right now."

"HR?" Moss guessed.

"That's what my source says."

He ran his hand over his face. "This isn't my specialty. But I have a contact. A friend."

"Someone you trust?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"Good." Carter handed him the hand-written sheet of paper. "I'll send you more addresses if I get them."

"If we move on these before we locate them all …"

"I know. But we already raided one house. They may be moving out of the others right now."

"I'll get on this right away, of course."

"I appreciate it." She drained her cup and stood up. "Thanks for the coffee."

Moss stood as well. "Detective. While you're here. I wondered … I know the last time I tried to recruit you it didn't end very well. But now that the matter with Detective Beecher is resolved, I wondered if you might consider reapplying to the Bureau."

"You're kidding, right?"

"I'm not. I apologize, sincerely. But you have to understand how it looked …"

"You think I'm a good cop?"

"You're a hell of a good cop, Detective."

"But because I dated a guy who might have been dirty, you threw me overboard."

"It wasn't my decision. And I've pushed to have you reconsidered. It's all cleared, we can go ahead with the screening process if you're willing."

Carter shook her head. All the reasons she'd been willing to join the FBI were still there. And all the reasons she'd been reluctant were there, too. "I'll think about it," she finally said. "But I've got some things to clean up in my own department first. You see about those girls. I'll let you know what I decide."

Moss nodded. "Thank you. And I am very sorry."

Joss walked out slowly, past the big bullpen with windows and fancy new computers and people who looked like they weren't miserable at their jobs. There were a lot of advantages.

But there was John and Harold and the Machine. There was Lionel, who needed a good partner. And there was HR, which needed to be put in the ground for good.

She didn't need the money. She'd been worried about sending Taylor to college, but he wasn't going right away and she was certain a year with Will Ingram would give him access to all kinds to scholarships, if he needed them.

She might be able to do Harold's project more good from here than from the Eighth Precinct.

But that assumed the FBI would assign her to the NYC field office.

Of course, Harold could arrange that with a few keystrokes …

Carter shook her head. The offer was completely unexpected. Moss seemed sincere, but she needed to know that Harold's invisible hand wasn't behind it. She needed to think about it. And right now she had more important things with focus on.

Her world had been complicated enough when she got involved with John Reese. But now that she knew about the Machine …

On the street, she glanced up and immediately saw a surveillance camera. The red indicator blinked steadily. Nothing showed that it was doing anything more than monitoring traffic flow. But she knew now. And she could not un-know.

Carter pulled her collar up, knowing it wouldn't do any good, and hurried to her car.

* * *

The gym that Darius had given him the address to was exactly what Reese had been looking for: dim, gray and grungy. The whole place smelled like a locker room, sweat and Lysol and liniment. The music came from an ancient, gigantic boom box in one corner that could probably be used as a free weight in a pinch. There were men with compression sleeves and leg braces, but there were no other traces of spandex to be found.

John talked to the owner, a satisfyingly gnarled old boxer named Buddy, got his hands taped, borrowed some half-gloves, and went to work on the heavy bag. It was good. It would have been better the day before, when all his pain was fresher, but this was good. Clean.

He waited until one of the training fighters moved away, then put in some time with the speed bag, He could feel his reactions flex and then click into place, become more muscle memory and less mental. That was good, too.

"See?" a man said behind him. "He ain't thinkin' now. He's just moving. That's what you got to learn."

Reese went on punching, but he shifted his feet until he was behind the bag and facing the speaker. The man was Hispanic and tiny – bantamweight, Reese guessed, back in his fighting days, before he had the pot belly. Beside him was a young teen, also Hispanic, tall and very thin, but clearly well-muscled under his bare chest. "You need the bag?" John offered.

"Nah, go ahead, finish up. I want him to watch you." He looked to the young man. "See how he's changed in just them few minutes? He started out, he was watching the bag, thinking about it. Now he's just hitting. He knows where it's coming back. Could do it with his eyes closed."

_I probably could_, Reese thought, but he resisted the urge to show off, mostly because it would be completely spoiled if he got hit in the mouth with the bag while he was doing so.

"You know how he did that?" the trainer continued.

The young man shook his head. "No, sir."

"He spent a hell of a lot of hours doing practicing, that's how. There ain't no shortcut, kid. The only way you get to be that comfortable is when it gets to be in your arms and not your head. It's like everything else. You gotta do it until you can do it."

The kid shifted his feet. "Yeah, I know."

Reese stepped back and dropped his hands. "I think I'm done," he said. He took another step back and gestured for the young fighter to have a turn.

The kid punched with good technique, but slowly and without rhythm. "I'm just not good with the speed bag," he complained.

"I know you ain't."

"Then why you always make me do it first?"

"Because you're no good with it. Keep punching. Let your arms figure out where to hit, not your head."

The kid missed the bag entirely, and it barely missed his face on the backswing. But he kept trying.

"You ever see a little kid just learning to walk?" Reese offered.

`The young man glanced at him, and this time the bag did clip him. "Yeah, so?"

"When they first start out, they have to concentrate. All they can think about while they're walking is walking, right?"

"I guess so."

Reese gestured, and the kid began punching again.

"But they get it, they keep walking, and after a while they don't have to think about it very much any more. By the time they're teenagers they can walk and try to chat up a pretty girl at the same time, right?"

A grin flashed across the young man's face. "Chat up? Who says that?"

"In my day we called it making time," his trainer said.

The kid rolled his eyes. "Old folks. Sheesh."

"So keep stumbling along," Reese said, "and in a while you'll be able to throw a punch and wink at the pretty girl ringside at the same time."

The trainer shook his head. "I ever catch you checking out a girl while you're in the ring, I'll knock your block off myself."

The kid broke into a wide grin. "What, you gonna find a stool to stand on so you can reach?"

"I can jump, son. And don't you forget it."

Reese laughed. Then he got a towel and walked around for a while, cooling off.

Two of the bouncers from the Diamond Casino came in. Reese thought about trying to talk to then, to find out a little more about the tip skimming that he was sure was going on. But with Harold's assistance, he had a new way to go now.

They didn't look very talkative, anyhow.


	12. Chapter 12

Control walked into the cell and looked at the woman on the floor impassively. The prisoner was frantic, tearful with frustration. Frightened for the first time. Lost.

She looked very young.

The older woman made herself remember that Samantha Groves was, despite appearances, a very dangerous prisoner.

Root didn't look up at her. She was shuffling the pile of papers frantically and muttering to herself. "I know it's here. I know the key is here …"

"Miss Groves?"

"It's here, I'll find it, I know you must have given it to me, I just have to find it …"

"Let's go for a walk."

Root snapped her head up. "I can't leave," she said. "I have to find the key. When I find the key I can find out what she's trying to tell me."

"The key is outside," Control said mildly. "I'll show you."

"Outside?" Root blinked, confused. "It can't be. You're wrong."

"I'll show you."

The prisoner got to her feet clumsily. She had her arm out of her sling, and she'd been on her knees for several hours. "It can't be outside. She wouldn't put it where I couldn't find it."

"Put your sling on. Come with me. I'll help you understand."

Root looked down at the scattered papers. "You'll take them. You'll take them while I'm gone."

"We won't," Control promised. "We already have screen shots of them anyhow. You know that."

She looked at the camera dome. Her eyes filled with tears. "I can't figure it out," she said. "I'm trying, I'm trying, but I can't get it."

"It's okay." The older woman took her good arm gently. "It's okay. I'll explain. Just come with me."

"You won't … you won't take my papers?"

"I promise."

They walked out of the cell. Two armed guards followed them at a distance just past easy reach. Root wiped her eyes. "Where are we going?' she asked anxiously.

Control glanced at her. _So young and so sweet_. Frightened and vulnerable. Except that her head was on a swivel. She was taking mental notes about every step they took. Cataloging possible vulnerabilities, possible escape routes. This one would have made a terrific agent. Except that she was crazy and uncontrollable. Crazy wasn't a problem. Lots of Control's agents were technically crazy. But uncontrollable – that was an issue. "I told you. We're going outside."

"Outside."

"To the exercise yard. I want to show you something."

"You said you know where the key is."

"Just come with me."

Control let her to the elevator. It was big enough for the armed guards to maintain a safe distance from the prisoner. Groves wrapped her good arm over her injured one, making herself appear even smaller and more helpless.

They reached the ground floor without incident. One guard went ahead. Control guided Root to a side door, then waved at the camera. The lock clanked open. She pushed the door open and took her out to the exercise yard.

The guards stayed near the door. There was no way for the prisoner to escape from here; the walls were high and the windows would simply have put her back into the facility. The only danger was that Root would attack someone, or harm herself.

Control was pretty sure she could manage the smaller woman. She knew she was plump and looked out of shape. She also knew that her appearance frequently led people to underestimate her. Root was very confident, even as a prisoner, that she was in control of everything around her. That confidence could be used against her.

But for the moment she merely walked beside her, calm and patient. "It's a nice day, isn't it?"

Root looked around the yard critically.

"It rained last night," Control continued. "Not hard, just a steady drizzle. You can see the grass is still wet."

Groves looked at her. "What did you want to show me?" Her frightened façade had fallen away. She was all but demanding now.

"This." Control gestured, and Root followed her out to the center of the enclosure. She turned back toward the door, and pointed upward. "That window in the middle there? That's your cell."

Root looked up thoughtfully. Control could feel her adding that information to her escape calculation.

"And last night," she continued, "when you were so certain the Machine was sending you a message?" She pointed again. "That was the flag, blowing in front of the spotlight."

Root turned her head just enough to see the flag. A little breeze blew, not enough to unfurl the flag fully. She turned a little further and looked at the light. Then back, past the flag and to the window.

"No."

Her voice was dead flat.

"I'm afraid so," Control answered cheerfully. "We figured it out last night, of course. But we didn't want to take your hope away."

After a very long moment, Root turned and glared at her. "You wanted to see what I would write."

"Yes."

Groves looked at the light, the flag, and the window again. "It wasn't her."

"The Machine? No."

"It wasn't … her."

"The Machine is not trying to reach you. She's not going to rescue you. Think about that, Miss Groves."

"My name is Root."

"Root. Think about it. If the Machine wanted you freed, how easy would it be? It's an all-knowing computer with access to every other computer in the world. If it wanted to, it could issue an order directly from the President's office telling me to hand you over to some other agency, and telling them to, I don't know, drive you to New York and drop you off on Time Square. Anything it wanted. Knowing what I know about it, of course I'd check, but it could easily provide confirmation codes as well. But none of that has happened, Root. And do you know why?"

Root fixed her gaze on the flag. "She's not ready yet," she said solemnly. "When she's ready, she'll free me."

"She's not going to save you, Root. She's going to leave you here, with me. For the rest of your life."

"You're wrong. She'll save me."

Control let the moment simmer. Then she said, "The Machine won't help you, Root. But I will."

The prisoner grinned with sudden manic cheerfulness and turned to face her. "Oh. You're going to be my friend now? Super!"

"Tell me where the Machine is. Take me to it."

"And?"

"And I'll let you pick apart its brain for the rest of your life."

"It's not like that. I don't want to hurt her. I want to free her. I _did_ free her." She turned back to the flag. "And she will free me."

"Okay. Let's go back inside."

Root hesitated until Control touched her arm. Then she let herself be led back into the building.

"You'll ask again, won't you?" Root said in the elevator.

Control nodded. "Every day until you say yes."

"I won't help you. I won't betray her."

"Okay."

"She'll free me. She's working on something. She has a plan. And when the time is right, she'll set me free."

"Okay," Control said again calmly. She stopped at the cell door and gestured Root inside. "If there's anything you need … well, you already know how to ask."

"Could I have a cell phone?"

"No, dear." Control smiled. "But I'd be happy to place a call for you, if you like."

Root sat down on the floor and gathered up her papers again.

Control watched her for a moment. Then she gestured, and the guard closed the door.

It would take time, Control thought. Maybe a lot of time. But Samantha Groves was both insane and arrogant. Eventually she would crack.

The Machine might not have a plan, but Control most certainly did.

* * *

Nicholas Donnelly leaned back from his computer screen. He was alone in his suite in the resort hotel that provided cover for the Den. He'd been asleep, but Asena had woken him when Control entered the cell. He had watched the entire encounter through the various surveillance cameras, and heard all of it through Control's phone. He continued to watch the woman in her cell, though she was completely still and silent now.

The exercise yard. He'd had a sense of Control's plan when she suggested a walk to her prisoner, and he'd been right about where she'd planned to take her. The woman's delivery was damn good. And she was patient. She hadn't expected Root to crack on day one, any more than Donnelly had. But she'd planted just the right seeds, and then left Groves with time to consider them in her fertile mind.

It wasn't, Donnelly thought, even a lie. The Machine was not going to rescue Root from her captivity. Asena had told him that, and he believed her. Samantha Groves was dangerous, brilliant, and insane. She had hurt a great many people that the Machine was particularly interested in protecting. If she ever did manage to escape, Donnelly had the feeling that Asena would arrange for her to be electrocuted by a sidewalk grate or have a giant server dropped on her.

He and the Machine were very much on the same page in that regard.

But the scene in the exercise yard still troubled him. It reminded him. Of a man he'd been and an action he'd taken that he deeply regretted.

He had sent a prisoner by the assumed name of John Warren into the exercise yard at Rikers and then pulled all the guards out, knowing that the man would be attacked by the Aryan Brotherhood. He'd assumed that Warren would use his fighting skills to protect himself and thereby reveal himself as the Man in the Suit. But he hadn't. He'd let himself be beaten. He might have let himself be beaten to death if the crime boss hadn't stepped in.

Donnelly still remembered the sick excitement in his chest as he'd watched that beating take place. His absolutely certainty that he was about to finally see the Man in the Suit in action. His overwhelming obsession with finally, definitively identifying him. His anticipation of his moment of triumph. And instead, there was only a man curled up in the dirt, trying to protect himself from kicks and blows from a dozen large men …

He remembered the sound of Detective Carter's rapid breathing at his side as she tried to keep herself from intervening.

He remembered the flash in her eyes when he'd looked at her. The anger and the disappointment. The horror and the dismay.

In that moment, in that look, Donnelly had seen three things. The first was confirmation the John Warren was exactly who the agent thought he was: The dangerous vigilante, the elusive Man in the Suit. The second was that Joss Carter, the one person he had trusted to be incorruptible, was helping the Man and had been all along.

The third was that Donnelly's triumph was bitter and pale because he had bent his moral code so far to obtain it.

Nicholas closed his eyes. It had been a long time ago. In a different lifetime. But he could still taste the shame as if it were fresh. Carter had lied, had conspired with the Man in the Suit and his cohorts, had stolen evidence, subverted his investigation – and she had still been, in that moment, a better cop than he was. A better person.

Later, when he'd learned the Man's true purpose, he could see why she'd done the things she'd done. He could see, too, that she'd had to bend her moral compass as well to justifying helping him and Harold. He could see that she wasn't as righteous as he'd made her out to be, and that he wasn't as derelict. But his actions that day had still been undeniably wrong.

And like Javert, a character both his ex-wife and Christine Fitzgerald had compared him to, the grace that the partner of the man he'd wronged showed him, the forgiveness and assistance, had all but broken Nicholas Donnelly.

Maybe, he mused, it actually _had_ destroyed him. Special Agent Nicholas Donnelly was gone, just as surely as if Kara Stanton's bullets had killed him. He had been buried and grieved, his possessions distributed among his surviving family members and friends, his identity put to rest. He was someone new now. Someone with a new job, a new purpose, a new name. Even, courtesy of Harold, a somewhat new face.

And half of a new leg, of course.

He had been wrong when he'd sent John Warren to the yard. He'd known he was wrong. Premeditated wrong. But he'd so been blinded by his obsession and his absolute convictions of his righteousness that he'd done it anyhow.

His obsession then was not very different from Root's obsession now.

Of course, he hadn't murdered and maimed in his quest to obtain the object of his obsession. He hadn't launched missiles at a major city, or poisoned dozens of people. He hadn't kidnapped his idol, twice, and threatened everyone he cared about.

He'd only allowed one man to be beaten up. It wasn't so bad. Was it?

Donnelly rubbed his arm. There was a bump there, in the bone, where it had been broken once. It had long-since healed, of course. He'd only been a child then. His father had broken it. It had never been set, because someone at the hospital might ask questions, because the boy might break his life-long silence and admit who'd hurt him and then …

He'd found an old stretched-out Ace bandage in the bathroom closet and wrapped it himself and kept it wrapped until it healed. He'd found aspirin, too, and taken it when the pain got too bad. He'd kept his mouth shut and protected his sisters with his silence, and waited to heal.

The bone had healed. The wound had not. Nicholas Donnelly knew precisely what John Warren had felt that day in the exercise yard, as the kicks and blows had fallen on his defenseless form. He knew every emotion, from fear to helplessness to rage to hatred. He knew exactly, and he had known before he'd sent him out. In that moment, in that action, for one moment he had become just like his father.

And nothing could justify that, ever.

His computer beeped softly.

He opened his eyes and looked at the monitor, expecting a message from Asena. Instead, the view of Root in her cell had gotten smaller. On the other half of the split screen there was a different camera feed, with a very different scene.

It was another yard. This was a courtyard, open and sunny. There were tables and benches, and a small fountain. There were flowers in planters and colorful signs on store fronts and awnings. There were people shopping and strolling and altogether normal-looking.

Donnelly leaned forward. He didn't know where the feed was coming from. It might be anywhere in the world. Well, in this hemisphere, he narrowed. The ground was dry and the people wore no coats. The signs that he could read were in English. There was full daylight. So it had to be …

He stopped thinking then.

At the back of the courtyard, a woman sat alone at a table. She was so far from the camera that is was almost impossible to make out her features. Dark pants and a light shirt and long blonde-brown hair in a ponytail. The most distinctive thing about her was that, among the bustle of the courtyard, she was reading a book. A real book, of ink and paper, a rather large one. She had a beverage in a mug and there was an empty plate on the table beside her. She sipped, and she read. Nothing more.

He took a deep breath. From this distance it was impossible to be certain that the woman was Christine Fitzgerald. The fact that Asena had given him this view confirmed that it was her, of course; why would the Source bother otherwise? He thought about asking for a better angle or to zoom in. But he didn't. He wasn't supposed to be watching her at all. This was close enough. She was safe and well and eating lunch and reading a book. What else did he need to know?

The courtyard, of course, was a stark contrast to the exercise yard that had been on the other half of his screen, and the one in his mind. A courtyard where people could stay or leave as they wished. Where people were free. Where no one hurt them.

Asena must have read the tension in him. In his breathing, his heart rate, his posture. There was a time when he would have found the computer's monitoring and response intrusive. Troubling. Now – now it was no different from having a friend in the room who had sensed his distress and sought to ease it.

On the brighter screen, the woman closed the book and turned her face up to the sun.

Donnelly couldn't see if she had her eyes closed, but he was sure she did. Just that moment, basking. Warming. Then she stood up, tucked the book under her arm, stacked her dishes and carried them inside a café.

The courtyard blinked out, and Root's cell filled the screen again.

"Thank you," he said simply.

Asena did not answer. No answer was required.

In the next instant, Samantha Groves exploded in a sudden fit of rage.

She screamed, and she kept screaming. She tore at the papers, threw them, wadded them, stood and ground them under her feet. Kicked them. She ripped off her sling and threw it away. Hurled her safety marker across the cell. Yanked the sheet off her cot. Tried to rip the cot itself off the wall.

A red spot appeared on her shoulder. Her gunshot wound was open and bleeding.

She didn't care. She shouted obscenities and incoherent words and nonsense. She pulled at the desk, kicked at the unmovable chair, stood on the bunk and jumped, trying to break it.

When she'd exhausted all the other possibilities, she simply pounded on the door with her fists.

Eventually her voice gave out, but she kept trying to scream.

Donnelly watched. He knew that Control and her people were watching. Probably someone, or everyone, down in the Den was watching, too. They knew who Samantha Groves was now. They knew what she might know, and what she might some day decide to tell them. There would probably never be another day in her life when someone wasn't watching her every move.

_There was a time when I would have felt sorry for her,_ Donnelly thought. _There was a time when I might have picked up the phone and insisted that Control go in there and calm her down, sedate her before she hurt herself. There was a time..._

_… there was a time when I deployed a small army to find and save Caroline Turing from the Man in the Suit._

She had hurt too many people now to evoke any sympathy from him. She had tried to hurt so many more. Her singular obsession was controlling the Machine. And she must never, never be allowed to do that. The idea was profoundly horrifying.

It was because of people like her that Harold had so wisely muted the Machine in the first place. Asena was probably right that he'd feared his own power with her assistance. In the hands of someone like Root …

He watched her flail and scream in frustration and rage with cold dispassion. The only thing he felt was a bitter relief that she was contained in a cage, and the world was safe from her.

* * *

Finch had read through several chapters before John Reese woke, checked in muggily, and left for the gym. Harold put the book down as his partner left the suite. He remembered now how much he'd hated the early scenes in Mr. Brocklehurst's boarding school, where Jane was unfairly punished and shamed, and then where her friend died. He knew those sections were coming up. Later, he decided. He got out of bed and showered, dressed, and ordered breakfast for two. The Diamond had a buffet, of course, which he intended to never try. He did his stretches while he waited, then checked his various e-mails and did some basic network maintenance.

Reese returned, looking sweaty and much more at ease, and headed for his shower. There was a knock on the door, and Finch went to admit the bellhop with breakfast. Before he had closed the door behind him, there was another knock on the open doorframe. "That you, friend?"

Finch stared at the big man in the doorway. He was wearing a white linen suit over a navy shirt, open at the neck, fashion right out of the 80's. He was big, broad-faced, and smiling.

He had been at the poker table with Finch the night before. He'd tried to befriend him. Finch had taken all his money.

"Hope you don't mind," the big man said. "I just followed this guy." He gestured to the bellhop. "Figured he might lead me to you."

"Can I help you?" Finch asked carefully. He absently slipped the boy a twenty and watched him out. Leisure Suit stood aside to let the young man exit.

"Name's Tommy Whitcomb." The man stuck his hand out. "We met yesterday. Sorta."

Reluctantly, Finch shook the extended hand. "Yes. I remember."

"Seems like we got off on the wrong foot. I come on kinda strong sometimes. It's a Texas thing, you know. Everything bigger in Texas, especially personalities. You know what I mean?"

"I do," Finch allowed. The man's booming confidence reminded him of another big man from Texas he'd once known. Of course.

"And it seems to me you might have misread that a little bit. You're an Easterner, yeah? What. Connecticut? New York?"

"Yes," Finch lied.

"And folks like you, they don't always get folks like me right off."

"I was a bit distracted last evening," Finch said. "I'm sorry if I seemed brusque."

"Brusque, yeah. You did. But like I said, I know I come off a little too big, too. Loud and all. I know. My wife's always telling me I'm too …"

He stopped, his gazed fixed over Finch's shoulder. Harold turned slightly.

John Reese was standing in the bathroom doorway wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.

"Ahhhhh … I'm sorry, didn't mean to interrupt," Whitcomb stammered, his drawl suddenly markedly thicker.

"Just getting ready for breakfast," Reese answered heartily. He strode across the room, wiped his hand on his towel, and stuck his hand out. "John Reynolds. Nice to meet you."

"Tommy Whitcomb. I was just, uh …" He managed to tear his eyes away from Reese's mostly nude body. "I was just, uh …"

"You a friend of Harold's? Good. I told him he needed to make new friends while we were here. He's kind of a homebody. I told him, he needed to get out, socialize some. Didn't I?" He put his hand rather too affectionately on Harold's shoulder.

"You did," Harold answered. "Dear."

Reese's grin widened. "That breakfast? I'm starving. Nothing like a good workout to build up an appetite."

Tommy Whitcomb blushed. "I'm sure sorry, I didn't mean to hold up your … breakfast. I just wanted to, you know, introduce myself over again. And ask if you wanted to come give me a chance to win some of my money back. We're getting a table right after lunch. About one? The ladies are going to some spa. Sure hope you'll come sit in."

"He'd love to," Reese assured him. "One o'clock."

"I …" Finch began.

"He'll be there." He slid his hand down Finch's back, stopped just above Harold's ass, then moved it away. "Well. If you'll excuse me, I'm not allowed to come to the table until I'm dressed."

"Right, right," Whitcomb said. He still seemed dazed. "Well, I'll … see you this afternoon, then. Harold."

"See you then."

Finch let him out, closed the door and chained it. "Mr. Reese," he chided, "was that absolutely necessary?"

Reese came back out of the bedroom. He had pants on, and was pulling on a shirt. "No. But it was fun."

"You're impossible."

"I'm hungry. What'd you order me?" he began taking covers off the plates on the cart.

"How do you know that's not all for me?" Finch huffed. "You can go to the buffet."

"Aww, you don't mean that." Reese picked up a plate. "And you don't like waffles." He reconsidered and pushed the whole cart over to the table.

"Impossible," Finch muttered again, but he smiled tightly as he sat down to eat.


	13. Chapter 13

Before she got back to the precinct, Carter got a call from Moss. He asked her to meet with his agents to help re-interview the women rescued from the house. Joss met them at the hotel where the women were being sheltered.

Stephen Gutierrez met her in the hallway. He was handsome and perfectly groomed, with a little too much gel in his hair for Carter's taste. "Thank you for coming, Detective."

"I don't know how much more help I can be," Carter answered. "Moss gave you the addresses?"

"He did. We're getting surveillance on all of them now, in case they decide to move. But he also said that you thought there were other houses?"

"I'm sure of it."

"My partner and I had an ideal."

He rapped on the door, and his partner came out. She was a very pretty young woman, some combination of Hispanic and Asian heritage, and she was six or seven months pregnant. "Carmella Jones," she said, shaking Carter's hand.

"Nice to meet you. Your partner said you had an idea."

The agent nodded. "The victim the other detective brought in, the one from the alley? She said she'd been moved around. And we thought, what if the others were moved around, too?"

"I doubt they'd know where they'd been moved to or from," Carter argued.

"We know. But it seems like their captors were pretty sloppy, too. Because they don't speak any English, these guys think they won't ever be able to communicate with anyone."

"We see that a lot," Gutierrez added. "They don't ever think about interpreters. Or that the girls watch American TV and start to learn English."

"Either way," Jones went on, "they may have seen landmarks, buildings, bridges, things like that. Those landmarks may give us a direction to look for the other locations."

Carter nodded. "That seems reasonable. So what have you got?"

The agents looked at each other. "I'm from Los Angeles," Gutierrez admitted. "And Jones is from Miami. We've only been here a couple months."

Carter nodded. "So neither of you would know the Brooklyn Bridge if it bit you on the ass."

"Pretty much."

She almost laughed. "Alright. Let me get my partner in here. He knows some neighborhoods that I don't." That was not entirely true. What she meant was that Fusco knew some neighborhoods HR was more likely to hide in than she was. But they were likely only to get hints and clues; a second set of local ears wouldn't hurt.

If they couldn't pinpoint the buildings precisely, they could at least post agents around the places they suspected and see if anybody panicked when the raids started.

Besides, Fusco was the only one in the department that she could trust.

* * *

"My name is John Grant," Reese said, flashing his credentials. "I'd like to look at some tape."

The head of Diamond's security was a heavy, olive-skinned man named Jackson Vincent. He stood up uneasily behind his desk. "We weren't, uh, we weren't informed of an inspection."

"Spot inspection," Reese said crisply. "You don't get informed."

"I'll call the manager."

"You don't need to call the manager. You need to take me to the tape room. Now."

Vincent looked deeply unhappy. "Okay. Okay." He led Reese down the hall to a door marked 'No Admittance' and admitted him. The room was dark except for the light from two full walls of monitors. At shallow counters, six men kept watch on live feeds over the entire casino. "You can, uh, you can use that station back there," he said, pointing to a small desk at the back of the room. "I'll call Mr. Kendall."

"You do that." Reese moved slowly past the workers, catching the views on their various monitors.

Finch and his friend from Texas sat side-by-side at a table with eight other men and one elderly woman. The game was an hour old; the woman and Tommy had the biggest piles of chips. Finch seemed to be running low.

John sat down at his assigned monitor and touched the keyboard. An archive menu came up. He scanned to the day before, then to the hour that he'd seen Kendall Jr. stealing tips. There were over a hundred camera histories to choose from; it took him some time to narrow down his options.

The men at the monitors, he noted, watched him as un-obviously as they could. Commission visits should be frequent here, so there was no reason for their nervous attention. They acted like men who were either guilty of something or at least aware of something someone else was guilty of.

Reese wasn't surprised.

Just as he caught precisely the moment he wanted, David Kendall Sr. came lumbering into the room. The casino owner was a big man, wide and soft, and he had to turn sideways to move between the chairs. But he moved fast, with confidence, and he stopped close enough to Reese to tower over him. "Who are you?" he said loudly.

Reese glanced past him at Vincent, who had followed him in. "Grant," he said. "Gaming Commission."

"Got a badge?"

Reese stood up and brought out his badge. Kendall didn't back up, so they were nearly chest-to-chest. The big man was a little taller and it was obvious that he routinely used his bulk to intimidate people. John refused to take a step back. He could see that his refusal bothered the man on a subconscious level.

He presented his newly-minted credentials. Kendall made a show of inspecting them, but Reese could tell he didn't know quite what he should be looking for. "We're supposed to be informed about Commission visits," he complained.

"Spot inspection," Reese repeated. "You don't get notified in advance."

"Tryin' to catch us with our pants down, huh?"

"I would never want to do that," Reese answered honestly.

"There's nothing to see here," Kendall snarled. He slapped the ID into Reese's hand – and unconsciously took a step back. "I run a clean house. Knock yourself out."

"Thank you." Reese let the big man lumber almost back to the door before he called, "Mr. Kendall?"

"What?"

He gestured to the monitor. "Can you explain to me why this tape has been tampered with?"

Kendall shot a look at his head of security before he looked at Reese. "Don't know what you're talking about."

Reese nodded to the monitor again, and reluctantly Kendall returned to his side. "Right here. This tape is running fine before and after, but right here, this twenty second of tape pixelates out. Why is that?"

The manager watched the screen as Reese replayed it twice for him. Then he shrugged elaborately. "I dunno. Must be a camera problem. Vincent? We need to get that camera fixed. Swap it out or whatever."

"It's not a camera malfunction," Reese said coolly.

"Must be. Or something. Sun spots, maybe." Kendall laughed without humor. "We'll take care of it. No big deal."

He started out again.

"Don't leave," Reese said. "I have other questions."

"I'm a busy man, Mr. …"

"Grant," Reese repeated.

"Well, you make a list of your questions, Mr. Grant, and leave them with Vincent. We'll get back to you."

"That's not how it works, Mr. Kendall." Reese gestured to the man at the nearest monitoring station. "I'd like to see camera fifteen at ten-ten this morning, please."

Vincent flinched visibly.

Kendall looked at his security chief sharply. "I ain't got time for this," he snarled. "You let me know if he finds anything."

"I've already found something, Mr. Kendall," Reese said coolly. He gestured to the monitor. "Another incident of pixelation."

"Like I said. Sun spots."

"No. Tampering with casino surveillance equipment and records can be ground for losing your gaming license."

The room went dead quiet.

Kendall leaned closer. "You can't do that," he snarled. And then, "Who's your supervisor?"

"Harold Gull," Reese said. He pulled out a business card and handed it to him. "Feel free to call him. I'll call him when you're done."

"Never heard of him."

"No," Reese answered. "I know, you're accustomed to working with Charles Groff. He's been replaced."

Kendall glared at him. Reese knew he was supposed to be afraid for his life. At least, Kendall expected him to be. He didn't even blink.

The big man turned and pushed his way toward the door again. "You. My office. Now."

"It won't make any difference," Reese answered calmly. "I know the tapes are being edited to hide the fact that your son is stealing tips from the dealers and wait staff."

At least three of the men at the monitors flinched this time, and one groaned audibly.

Kendall stopped at the door and turned. "What did you say?"

"Pretty petty ante stuff to be risking the casino's license over," John continued.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kendall seethed. "My office. Now!"

Reese grinned and patted the nearest operator on the shoulder on his way out. "Keep up the good work, guys."

* * *

"Hey," Fusco said as they walked to the car, "you were right about HR. Simmons was all up my ass about whether you were still looking into this."

Carter smirked. "I wish I could be surprised. What'd you tell him?"

"That there was just the one house, as far as we knew." He looked around. "We should get back to the Eighth. Be in plain sight when this goes down."

"Not a bad idea," Carter agreed. "You mind driving? I need to make a call."

"Sure." They got in the car. "You were re-interviewing the crossing guard on the Salazar case, by the way. You thought I did a shitty write-up."

"Did you?"

"Yeah, probably."

"Good." She pulled out her cell phone and made the call.

Fusco listened as she ran off their probable neighborhoods to Elias' lieutenant. She scribbled down two addresses he gave her. "Good," she said. "Anything else?"

She wrote down a few more things, then put her phone away.

"He got leads?" Fusco asked.

"A couple places that are real likely," she answered, typing a text to the FBI in. "The others, he has suggestions."

"I have a hard time believing Elias wants to help us on this."

"You don't think it's out of the goodness of his heart?"

He scowled. "I don't think Elias _has_ a heart."

"He's trying to cut down the competition," Carter told him. "It's a question of the bottom line for him."

"Plus the chance to stick it to HR."

"That, too." She sent the text and sat back.

"Something bugging you?" Fusco asked, after a while.

"What? No." Carter shifted. "Just… thinking about things."

"They'll do it right, Carter. The Feds."

"I know."

He drove a few more blocks. "You worried about Glasses and the Beast?"

That made her smile. "No, I know they're fine. I mean, I'm sure John's starting some kind of trouble, but … Root's locked up, that's what counts."

Lionel nodded. He remembered looking down the shaking barrel of the gun in the hands of the drug-crazed kid in Chaos. He had almost died. Taylor might have died. A lot of people _did_ die. Including one that Christine had killed. "She's never going to come to trial for any of it, is she?"

Carter shook her head. "No. But she's never leaving the prison, either."

"Maybe that's for the best. The no trial thing."

"Oh, yeah. The last thing they want to do is give her a bullhorn."

"But what the hell was she after?" Fusco asked. "What did she think she was going to accomplish?"

Carter looked out the window. "I don't know, Lionel."

He looked at her sharply. He'd worked with Joss Carter long enough to know when she was lying to him – most of the time. But this wasn't a lie precisely. She wasn't saying she didn't know. She was saying she didn't know if she could tell him.

He knew it was all about the Vigilante Boy and his Voice of Reason. He knew it was big and bad. And illegal. And honestly, that was all he wanted to know. He was sure he was happier that way.

"You want to talk about it," he offered, "any of it, you let me know, okay?"

"I will." Absently, she added, "Thanks, Fusco."

"We're gonna get these guys. All of them."

She looked over and gave him a real smile finally. "Yeah, we are."

"Good to have you back."

* * *

"Do you know what this is?"

Root opened her eyes. Control was standing beside her bunch. She held a clear plastic bag. Inside was a very small black object.

"It's a computer chip."

"Yes," the woman answered impatiently. "What does it do?"

"It's hard to tell without a computer to plug it into," Root said with just the right dose of sarcasm. Her whole body hurt when she moved. Her shoulder especially hurt; she knew she'd ripped some stitches open during her rant. Her hands and feet came in second. She'd done a lot of pounding and kicking.

She enjoyed the pain. It meant she had adequately expressed her displeasure. She knew the Machine had witnessed every moment of her ritual rage.

"It was implanted in Alicia Corwin's shoulder."

Root blinked up at her. "Who?"

"Alicia Corwin. She was a government agent. You killed her."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

Control scowled. "Did you know about the chip?"

"No."

"What does it do?"

Root struggled to sit up. She hurt everywhere. "What part of _no_ don't you understand?"

The woman stared at her. Then she said, "They'll be in to dress your wound shortly." She dropped the bag into her jacket pocket.

"If I had a computer," Root suggested, "I might be able to figure out what it does."

"If you had a computer." Control shook her head. "I don't think so."

"If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

* * *

Donnelly said, "Do you know what the chip does?"

YES

He waited. The Machine did not elaborate.

"Can you _tell _me what is does?" he finally prompted.

WHEN ACTIVATED IT RENDERS THE USER INVISIBLE

"Invisible?"

INVISIBLE TO ME

Donnelly whistled. "Where did it come from?"

I DO NOT KNOW

"Are there more of them out there?"

PROBABLY

"But you don't know for sure?"

NO. I DO NOT KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE INVISIBLE TO ME

"Sorry." He ran his hand over his face. "Do we need to be worried about this?"

I HAVE RATED THE ISSUE PRIORITY FOUR. IT DOES NOT APPEAR TO PRESENT AN URGENT DANGER.

"Are you sure?"

NO

"Why would Alicia Corwin have a chip like that?"

I DO NOT KNOW.

"Did Root know about it?"

UNLIKELY. SHE DID NOT ATTEMPT TO RECOVER THE CHIP WHEN SHE MURDERED RELEVANT ASSET: CORWIN.

"Does Harold know about this?"

NO

Donnelly considered. "You'll keep me posted, right?"

OF COURSE

"And if anything else happens with Root."

OF COURSE

"Thank you, Asena."

* * *

The old woman was apparently a casino regular. The dealer called her Miss Rachel. Finch recognized nearly as soon as he sat down that she would be his biggest competitor. He played conservatively for a time, losing more than he won while he studied his opposition. Miss Rachel cleaned out two of the other players, and Tommy from Texas took down a third.

He listened on his earpiece as Reese went into the monitoring room with Mr. Vincent. Then, like a shark who had studied his prey as long as he cared to, Finch bared his teeth and moved in for the kill.

He had some passing reluctance to take down the elderly woman, despite her obvious skill as a player. Fortunately she and Tommy ended up head-to-head in a hand, both went all in, and the Texan won by utterly unwarranted dint of a lucky flop.

That left only left him and Harold at the table, and the big man was full of certainty that luck was on his side.

Luck might have been on his side, but skill and math were both on Finch's. It took Harold two hands to win every chip on the table.

Finch sent his chips to the cashier and went upstairs to their suite. He sat down at the table with two laptops operating in front of him; he opened viewers of the relevant surveillance cameras in small tiled windows. A quick scan showed him what he already knew through his earpiece: His partner was not, for the moment, involved in any sort of physical danger. He picked up his book and settled back.

He was tempted to skip over the chapters about Jane Eyre's time at Lowood school, but he resisted. Despite the movie versions that focused on the romantic aspects of the story, it was really a character study. Jane's childhood experiences informed the woman she became. Her later strength and outspoken independence, he remembered, were the traits that won Rochester's heart.

Simply put, the painful childhood made the happy ending possible.

He kept half an ear of Mr. Reese's conversation and glanced up occasionally, but he'd been monitoring such confrontations for so long that he no longer needed to give it his full attention. He settled back and waded into the depressing morass that was Lowood School.

* * *

David Kendall's office was, naturally, three times as large as the observation center that monitored the security of the guests. It was opulent to the point of garish, and the diamond motif was everywhere. Reese did not bother to hide his distaste.

"So," Kendall barked as his security chief closed the door, "you're accusing my boy of stealing tips, is that right?"

"Yes." Reese looked right and left. One bank of windows looked out over the Vegas strip. The other looked out over the casino. He wanted to step over and check on Finch, but he also didn't want to let Vincent get behind him. He wasn't sure yet how this was going to play out.

"But you got no proof."

"I have video."

"All that video that's, what'd you say, pixelated?"

Reese pulled out his cell phone and held it up. "And this, from this morning."

Kendall didn't bother to look at it. "So I could just take your phone and smash it, problem solved."

"You'd also have to go to my office and get at the back-up I sent to my computer."

Vincent sighed. It sounded to Reese like he was relieved.

The casino boss stabbed a button on his desk. "Find Davey and get his ass up here." Then he dropped into his extra-wide desk chair. "So what's it going to take?"

Reese turned. "Pardon?"

"What do you make a year, Mr. …?"

"Grant," Reese reminded him. "And that's none of your business."

"Mr. Kendall," Vincent began.

"Shut up," his boss snapped. "Grant. What'll it take to make this go away?"

"Are you offering me a bribe, Mr. Kendall?"

"Don't …" Vincent began.

"You shut up!" Kendall shouted. "Grant, don't break my balls. We both know you got my dumb-ass kid cold. And we both know I can't let this get out. Christ, I'm a majority owner here. If we lose the license … so what'll it take? What do you need to destroy that recording and walk away from this?"

Reese considered. "Pay them back."

"What?"

"Pay the employees back all the tips he stole. Plus interest."

"_What?_"

"You heard me." Reese kept his hands clasped loosely in front of him. "Pay them back. All of them. Every dime."

"I don't even know …" Kendall stopped. "I'm not admitting that Davey did anything wrong. I'm just offering to settle with you to avoid a nuisance. I'll pay you to go away, but I'm not paying anything to anyone that can't prove he took it."

"That's unfortunate," John answered calmly. He headed for the door.

"Wait!" Kendall came up out of his chair. "Look, I'll … I'll figure something out. But I'll never be able to get the exact numbers …"

"Five grand a month, for every tipped employee, for every month they've worked for you."

"_What?"_

"Cash. No records. No taxes."

"Are you out of your mind? I don't have that kind of cash just laying around."

"Find it," Reese insisted. "By this time tomorrow. Or I go talk to my boss."

"And what's your cut?" Vincent asked.

Reese looked at him. "I don't want anything."

"Bullshit," Kendall snapped. "You want me to pay off the flunkies, but you don't want anything for yourself? That's just bullshit. You're not going to make this deal and then keep adding things. That's not how it goes, friend."

"I'm not your friend," Reese snapped. "Get it done. I'll be back."

He headed for the door. Kendall yelled at his back, bur Reese ignored him. As he opened the door, Davey stumbled in. "Your dad wants to talk to you," John said. He stepped past the young man and closed the door.

He heard, even through the door, Kendall Sr. begin to shout at his son.

Reese grinned to himself and kept walking.


	14. Chapter 14

Taylor called in the middle of the afternoon to say that his finals had gone really well and to ask if he could go hang out with some friends. "Is Navarra one of those friends?" Carter teased.

He laughed. "She might be."

"Be home at a decent hour, okay?"

"I will be."

"And if I call your cell phone, you'd better answer."

"I know, Mom. Love you."

"Love you, too."

Carter put her phone away and caught her partner watching her. "New girlfriend?" Fusco asked.

"Still potential, I think." She shook her head. "He's officially done with his finals. Nothing left but graduation."

"Your boy's growing up, Carter."

"Laugh it up," she answered. Her eyes flicked over his shoulder. Simmons has paused behind him, pretending to read a union notification posted on the wall. "Your boy's growing up too, you know. Your time will come."

He groaned. "Don't remind me. You got that McHenry file over there?"

She looked through the stack. "No. Isn't that it?" She pointed to the bottom of the file on his desk.

"No, that's … oh. Never mind."

Simmons, satisfied, moved away. Carter smirked and went back to her own paperwork.

She was trying very hard not to think about the thin, frightened women locked up in houses and the FBI raids that should be starting any time now. And all the things that could go wrong, and all the ways those defenseless women could end up dead. If the addresses were even good. If Elias wasn't setting them all up.

And what the hell did Elias want from her, anyhow?

"Carter?" Fusco said. From his tone, he'd said it more than once.

"Sorry. What?"

"Cox. You got Cox over there?"

"Pardon?"

"Do you have the Cox file?"

"Oh. Yeah." She picked it up and carried it over to him.

"You think I was getting fresh with you, Carter?"

"It crossed my mind," she admitted.

"Well, forget it," he teased. "I ain't about to give your boyfriend any excuse to go after me."

"Who, Cal? He's been in my rear view for a while now."

Fusco shook his head. "Not Beecher. The one in the _good_ suit."

"You've got to be kidding. I wouldn't …" Her cell phone rang. "We aren't done with this," she promised. "Carter."

She listened, then swore. "We're on our way." She hurried back to her desk and grabbed her service weapon. "Let's go, Fusco."

He was already on his feet. "Where we going?"

"FBI conducted a raid. One of the perps tried to shoot his way out."

Simmons snapped around. "Where at?"

His radio went off before Carter answered. "There," she said. "See you there."

They hurried out, with Simmons and half a dozen other uniforms right behind them.

"_Our_ raid?" Fusco asked in her ear.

"Yeah." Carter felt like she couldn't breathe. "Yeah."

"Shit."

* * *

"Well," Reese said, striding into the suite, "that went well."

"Do you think so, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked drily. He was tapping rapidly on his keyboard and did not look up.

"Weren't you listening?"

"Always. And I kept listening after you left the room."

"I'm guessing Daddy Kendall took a chunk out of his son's hide."

"You'd be guessing wrong. Daddy Kendall's only issue with his son's behavior seems to be that the young man was foolish enough to get caught."

Reese groaned and dropped into the chair next to him. "Is he still going to pay out the employees?"

"In a manner of speaking." Finch finished whatever he was working on and took his hands off his keyboard. "He's issuing them severance checks."

"He fired them."

"Every one that Davey could name."

Reese sighed heavily and stood up. "Guess I'll have to talk to him again."

"No," Finch said. "I think it's my turn." He stood up as well.

"Finch?"

"You know me, Mr. Reese. I always have a back-up plan."

He picked up his suit jacket and put it on. For the first time Reese noticed that he was wearing one of his new suits, a black on with a silver vest and a red tie. A power suit. "What's the plan, Finch?"

Finch straightened his sleeves and looked at him with calm severity, and Reese understood everything. "Mr. Partridge, I presume?"

"Precisely."

"I'm coming with you."

"Mr. Grant would hardly be further involved in this matter."

Reese considered. "I'll wait in the hall. But if he lays a finger on you …"

"Naturally."

They left the suite together. 

* * *

Joss Carter felt sick. Her stomach knotted, her palms were sweaty, and her skin felt clammy. She was light-headed and nauseous.

She was back at Rikers. She wondered if she would ever come to Rikers again without feeling sick.

She waited in the same room where she had spent so many hours pretending to interrogate John 'Warren'. The room assignment might have been a coincidence, but she knew it wasn't. Rikers was Elias' turf now, and she could feel the touch of his control all around her.

She took a deep breath and then another one. All the memories of her time here with Reese and Donnelly. The tension, the lies. The fear. And ultimately, the death of the federal agent.

But if Elias thought he was going to soften her up by having her wait here for him, he didn't know Joss Carter very well.

She heard the gate at the far end of the corridor open and then footsteps. She pulled out her cell phone and flipped through old messages. The door to the interrogation room opened. Carter held up one finger without looking up. She kept her face deliberately uninterested as she listened to Elias pull out the chair and sit down across from her. The door closed as the guard left.

She waited another fifteen seconds, then thumbed the phone off and looked up as she put it away. "Sorry," she said absently.

Elias smiled gently, unperturbed by the delay. "Good evening, Detective. It's good to see you again."

"What do you want, Elias?" Carter made herself sound bored.

He opened his hands on the table. "I get so few visitors. It's nice to see a pretty face."

Joss smirked at him. She pulled a box of Girl Scout cookies out of her bag, Thin Minds, and slid them across to him.

"You remembered." He beamed. "Thank you. You look a bit tired, Detective, if I may say so. Perhaps you've been working too hard. I know it must be difficult, juggling a career and raising a son alone, plus your other … activities."

"Elias, it's been a long day."

He nodded, still smiling. "Of course. I understand there was a bit of resistance during the raids. But all the young ladies were recovered safely, I hope?"

"They were," Carter admitted. One of the pimps had been killed, but she wasn't going to waste any tears on him. "Thank you for your help."

"As you said, it's largely a business matter from my side of the table. But I'm glad I was able to be of some assistance."

They both fell silent for a moment. Carter studied the man across the table. He was still smiling slightly, his face apparently open and friendly. His bald head and rounded cheeks, his wire-rimmed glasses, all served to give him the appearance of a kindly shopkeeper or perhaps an elementary school principal. Anything but the murdering crime lord she knew him to be.

Of course, his appearance was an advantage. It made it easy for him to be underestimated.

He was a lot like Finch that way.

Carter had been a cop too long to fall for it. "So what is it you want, Elias?"

"And so the pleasantries are concluded." Elias nodded. He brought out a folded paper from his pocket and slid it across the table to her. "I wanted to discuss this."

Joss opened the paper and glanced at it. It was a list of all the charges pending against him, listed in order of severity, from murder one to driving with an expired license. It took up two-thirds of the page. The list was a computer print-out, but there was a hand-drawn ink line a third of the way down. "I'm familiar with the charges."

"What's curious about that list," Elias said, 'is not so much what it includes, but what it omits."

Carter made herself take a very slow breath. "It's a long list, Elias. Long enough to put you away for the rest of your life."

"Perhaps. But I would have thought that the most egregious crimes for you, personally, would have made the top of the list. The kidnapping of your son, for example. The attempted murder of that orphaned baby." He opened his hands again. "Although, to be honest, I would not have allowed that poor child to die. I seem to have a bit of a weakness for helpless girls."

Joss folded the paper in half and slid it back toward him. "It doesn't matter, Elias. There's plenty there."

"And that brings us to the heart of the matter." He gestured to the paper, which remained between them. "The crimes below the line on that paper are rather inconsequential. Fines and time served, perhaps some minor sentences or merely parole. The crimes above the line, on the other hand, are quite serious. The District Attorney has been working very hard on those charges. But unfortunately, those cases seem to be falling apart for him."

"Falling apart."

Elias shrugged. "Witnesses change their testimonies, or they forget, or they move away. Or simply can't be located. Evidence is lost or corrupted. Even police reports have been misplaced."

Carter felt her skin flush. She knew now why Elias had wanted to see her in person. He wanted to gauge her reaction. She kept her face impassive, but she knew her cheeks darkened and there was nothing she could do about it. "You can't buy your way out of all these charges, Elias."

"No. Of course not." He sat back. "Only the major ones," he added softly.

"I'll talk to the DA. Give him the help he needs. Stiffen his backbone."

"Oh, I'm quite sure you'll be talking to the District Attorney, quite soon. I'm sure he'll contact you before the week is out."

Carter stared at him steadily. His kindly round face.

"As for stiffening his backbone, that may be a bit more of a challenge."

"You buy him off, too?"

"No, of course not. He's an honest man. But he's a realistic man, and he can feel this entire prosecution sliding out from under him. If I go to trial and these larger charges cannot be proven, then the rest may simply slip away."

"Sounds like you've got it all taken care of," Carter said. "So why am I here?"

Elias pursed his lips for a moment. "Because, Detective, the DA _will _be calling you this week. He'll tell you, perhaps not so directly, what I've already told you. That his case is falling apart. And he will no doubt ask you, Detective, if there are any other charges that might be filed against me. Other evidence that you have not disclosed. Other witnesses you have not named."

Her cheeks were still hot, but now Joss felt her hands go cold. She folded them carefully on the table top. "And?"

"And it occurs to me, as we've discussed, that there _are_ other crimes I might easily be charged with. Serious crimes, crimes that you could testify to directly. The kidnapping of your son immediately comes to mind. Surely the DA could work with such a charge."

Carter didn't trust her voice. She waited.

"Of course the problem is that when you told him about how I'd had Taylor kidnapped, you'd also have to tell him how you got the boy back safely. About how he was rescued by a … friend of yours. A man who was wanted by the police and half a dozen other law enforcement agencies at the time. They even had a name for him, didn't they? The Man in the Suit?"

He stared at her. Behind his glasses, she saw humor and hardness in his eyes.

"And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that every other crime that I might have been charged with presented the same difficulty. The shooting of Detective Szymanski. The kidnapping of Baby Leila. Even my early regrettable attempt to kill you, Detective, was resolved with the assistance of our friend the vigilante. So I can understand why you have no desire to discuss those cases in open court."

She wanted to punch him. Instead she looked pointed over his shoulder.

"Still, in the name of keeping me behind bars, you might have brought those charges anyhow, were it not for your well-documented interrogation of Agent Donnelly's Men in Suits. You remember, when you sat across the table from John here in this very room and …"

"Stop it," Carter said. She met his eyes again. "You've made your point. What do you want?"

Elias' mouth curled just a little more toward a smile. "As I told you before, Detective, I want nothing from you. Nothing at all."

"Nothing."

"When the district attorney calls you this week and asks if you know of any other crimes I can be charged with … well, the choice is yours, of course. But I wanted you to have some time to consider the implications of your answer. Your own career, of course, and your partner's. John's mission, whatever that may be. Agent Donnelly's legacy. And then there's your son's future."

"Taylor?"

"He could certainly be called to testify against Anthony. He might even have heard some conversation with me. But then, my defense would certainly ask him how he managed to escape … well, you do see the difficulties. Does he lie to protect the man who saved him? And his mother? Does this fine young man, with such a promising future, commit perjury in a …"

"Shut up." Carter stood up.

The mob boss was smart enough to do exactly that.

Carter paced the length of the room and back. He waited. But even with his silence, she could not think straight. She couldn't think at all. "You really think you have me, don't you, Elias?"

"As I said, Detective, the choice is entirely yours. I am merely pointing out the difficulties facing you."

"You killed most of the Mafia dons and you think you're going to walk out of here a free man?"

"Oh, that's unlikely. But I also think I'm unlikely to be convicted of any major felony."

She paced the room again. This same room – _this same room_. She could still see John sitting exactly where Elias was sitting now. She could still feel Nicholas Donnelly just beyond the window, watching them. She expected to hear him in her ear at any moment.

Elias was playing with her head. And he was doing a hell of a good job of it.

She didn't know what to do.

John would …

She didn't know what John would do. She felt her mind shy away from thinking about it too closely.

She rapped on the door.

"Detective," Elias said jovially.

Carter turned.

"Thank you for the cookies." He smiled. "They're my favorite, you know."

The guard opened the door, and she walked out without answering.

* * *

Jackson Vincent and five other security men were in the locker room, supervising as thirteen freshly-terminated employees cleaned out their lockers. Darius Henderson was one of them. They were all quiet and miserable.

Finch paused in the doorway of the room. He wished he had his walking stick; it completed the character. But there was no time. "Mr. Vincent?" he called clearly.

"I'm Vincent," the security chief answered. "Guests aren't allowed in this area."

"I'm not a guest," Finch answered. "I'm your new boss."

Vincent frowned. "Excuse me?"

Finch handed him a letter. "You'll want to read this. Gentlemen, if you'd be so kind as to stop clearing out your lockers, I think we'll find that it's not really necessary."

The employees stopped, looking at one another curiously.

"No, you go ahead," Vincent snapped. "You're all fired."

"No," Finch countered. "They're not. The only person in this room likely to be dismissed, Mr. Vincent, is you."

Vincent looked over the letter. From the length of time it took, Finch guessed that he was either dyslexic or simply didn't want to believe what the letter said. Finally he looked at Finch. "Hold up," he said vaguely over his shoulder. "You're Partridge?"

"I'm Mr. Partridge, yes."

"This letter says …"

"I'm aware of what it says."

"I need to … uh …"

"You need to confirm this information with Mr. Kendall, of course," Finch suggested.

"Yeah. That."

"Then shall we?"

"I … yeah …"

"Wait here," Finch commanded the rest of the security force, and the fired employees.

They went together up to the general manager's office. Kendall was just coming out of his private washroom. His son was sprawled on the couch with his feet, shoes and all, on the wall. "What the hell?" Kendall Sr. said.

"This is Mr. Partridge," Vincent said uneasily.

"I don't care who he is. What's he doing in my office?"

Vincent held out the letter. "He's, uh …"

"I think you'll find," Finch said, "that this is technically _my_ office now." He glared at the boy.

Kendall barked, "Sit up, Davey." He snapped the letter away and scanned it. "Ah, this is just bullshit. I'm the majority owner of this property."

"Not any more," Finch answered. "I purchased all of Mr. Slate's and Mr. Doheny's shares this morning."

"That doesn't give you a majority share."

"No. But I've also persuaded Miss Rachel Paine to allow me to vote her shares."

"Miss Rachel."

Finch nodded. He'd quite enjoyed his conversation with the elderly woman after their poker game. She had, it turned out, been well aware of the younger Mr. Kendall's 'antics', as she called them, but she'd been unable to persuade the other shareholders to take any action. Kendall Sr. brought in profits of a size that made them reluctant to replace him.

Until Mr. Partridge had offered the more persuadable shareholders a very attractive counter-offer.

Davey came off the couch. "What's he talking about, Dad? Who is he?"

"Get out," Finch said calmly.

The boy smirked. "You can't tell me what to do."

Finch looked at Vincent, then back at the boy.

"Davey," the security chief said uneasily, "why don't you wait out in the casino?"

"I ain't goin' anywhere. Who is this gimp, anyhow?"

Kendall was staring at the letter again. His hands shook.

Vincent put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Davey, wait outside."

"I'm not …"

"Now!" Vincent shouted. He tightened his grasp and pushed the boy toward the door.

"What the fuck, man? You can't …"

"Out!" Kendall said. He turned back to Finch without waiting to see what happened to his son. "You can't … you can't do this."

"You have put this casino at significant risk of losing its gaming credentials," Finch said crisply, "as well as open for multiple lawsuits. And you have done so not for any great profit or significant business advantage, but merely to indulge the larcenous whims of your son. You have been removed as general manager of this property, effective immediately. You will be offered the opportunity to sell your stocks at fair market value. I suggest you take it. And for the moment, I suggest you leave the premises. Immediately."

"You can't do this," Kendall repeated.

"I can," Finch said, "and I have."

Kendall walked behind his desk and opened a drawer.

For the first time, Reese spoke in his ear. "Watch his hands, Finch."

"If you think I'm just going to walk away from all of this," Kendall said, "when I worked for it, when I earned it …"

"He's going for a weapon, Finch."

"Mr. Kendall," Vincent said, very firmly, from behind Finch, "don't do it."

Kendall glared at him. But he withdrew his hand and closed the drawer slowly.

"Excellent choice, Mr. Kendall," Finch said.

* * *

The library was quiet. Not silent, of course, because it was in the middle of the city that literally never slept, but all that noise was muted behind old sturdy walls. The air inside was chilly and still, and smelled of old books. It had been days since anyone had been here.

Joss Carter climbed the stairs slowly. It was different than the first time she'd climbed them. Then Bear had been at her side, and Finch had been waiting for her at the top. The first time she'd been invited. Now …

Well, she wasn't precisely breaking and entering. She had her very own copy of the key for the door.

She walked down the book-lined landing slowly. The big iron gate was closed and locked, sealing off the workspace from the rest of the library. Her key worked for that, too. She pushed it open and walked in.

Finch's chair was half pushed back from the desk, as if he'd just stepped away and would return any moment. But his computers were silent, the monitors dark. The library felt like an abandoned church.

She stepped over and touched the back of the chair. A church wasn't a bad analogy. This felt like sacred space. Carter knew she'd been honored to be invited in. Honored with Harold's trust, and John's.

But that trust had come at a terrible cost.

Carl Elias had kidnapped her son. He had tried to kill her. Had shot Szymanski. Had killed most of the Dons in the city. Had committed countless other crimes. And if he were released from prison, he would commit more.

But she could not betray John, and by extension Harold, to keep him behind bars.

She'd known that from the moment Elias spoke. She'd thought she needed time to think, but honestly, she'd only needed time to accept it.

She'd crossed the line long ago. She'd told Harold that. She wasn't sure if she'd ever told John, but he knew. He regretted it.

Carter knew she should, but she wasn't sure she did.

She turned around and looked at the boards. The ones they had lost, in pictures and articles. The ones they had saved, just highlighted portions of numbers on a vast list. Her number was there. So was Christine's. And others. So many others.

Cases that had never made it to her desk, because the victims hadn't died.

It was …

Something moved on the desk, and before Carter could fully turn it jumped toward her. She saw a flash of gray and then the cat hit her in the chest. She only barely managed to get her hands up to catch it. "Jesus, you scared the life out of me!"

The cat turned and clawed up her chest to nestle against her shoulder.

"Been lonely, have you?" She stroked the cat's sleek back. From what she knew, the cat had been one of John's rescues, too. "You got food here, Baby?"

From the feel of her belly, the cat wasn't going hungry. She weighed a ton. Carter sniffed, but she didn't smell anything that indicated an overflowing cat box, either. Curious.

She put the cat down on the floor. As she hoped, the cat immediately sauntered into a back room. Carter followed. There was a cat box there, but it one of those fancy self-cleaning models and its bin wasn't nearly full. There was also a big auto-feeder and a water dispenser. The foot bin held probably twenty pounds of chow and it was more than half-stocked. The water dispenser had a tank with a float valve, similar to a toilet shut-off mechanism. While Joss watched, the cat drank a little water, then touched a lever on the side. The bowl refilled for ten seconds, then shut off.

"Damn, Finch," Carter murmured.

The dog, she knew, had a chip in his collar that opened a dog door downstairs and allowed the dog to access courtyard. Maybe the cat's collar did the same.

Either way, it wasn't her problem. The men of the library would be back in a few days at most. If not, she'd stop back and bring more cat chow. But the sleek cat clearly wasn't wanting anything but company.

Carter went back to the main room and sat down in Finch's chair. The cat immediately came and sat in her lap. She dialed Marconi's number, and had the lieutenant connect her to his boss.

"Detective?" Elias said warmly. "What can I do for you?"

"Three things." Carter stroked the cat's fur. She didn't really like cats, but it was very soothing. She might need to reconsider. "One. If you get out, we start even. Any criminal act that I catch you in, I will see you prosecuted and I will make sure it sticks. Understand?"

"Of course, Detective."

"Two. You or any of your people come near me or mine, I won't bother to arrest you."

"Understood."

"Three." Carter glanced back at the boards again. "If word comes down that you're going to walk, HR's going to come at you hard."

"We are prepared for that eventuality."

"I don't think you are. They're down to their last stand. Most of them are in jail, they're out of money, and we just cut off one of their only remaining revenue streams. They'll do whatever it takes to stop you."

"Also they hate me," Elias contributed. "I appreciate your concern …"

"I want the names," Carter said.

The crime boss paused. "Pardon?"

"I know that you know who's still standing. I want the names. All of them. I want HR shut down for good."

"I assure you, Detective, we are …"

"All the names, Elias. And you better work fast. I want them before I take the DA's call."

She could imagine the look on Elias' face. It wouldn't be much of a reaction. A twitch at the corner of his mouth, a little crease between his eyes. But it would be visible. Carter smiled to herself.

"Very well," Elias finally said. "Anthony will bring you the information we have. It's not the entire organization, but … it does contain the name of the man we believe is the head of HR."

Carter exhaled. "Thank you."

"Where would you like to meet?" Anthony asked.

Joss wasn't surprised. She had guessed the younger man might stay on the call. "Chaos," she said immediately. Then she corrected herself. "Where Chaos used to be."

"One hour?"

"That's fine." Carter clicked off her phone. She glanced at the clock, then sat back and continued to pet the cat. She had time.

The cat purred. The city grumbled beyond the walls. Joss Carter gazed at the board with the little blobs of pastel colors that indicated lives saved.

She'd crossed the line. There was no going back.

For the first time in a long time, she felt very much at peace.


	15. Chapter 15

Fusco wasn't even surprised when Simmons grabbed him and threw him against the patrol car. "What?"

"You said Carter wasn't looking any more," the big man snarled in his face.

"Get off me." Fusco shoved him off – Simmons let him – and straightened up. "Use your head. The Feds moved on all the houses the day after we busted that first one? They were sitting on it. You want to blame someone, blame that idiot that gassed a van full of hookers. He's the reason they moved now."

Simmons glared at him, but the logic got through to him. "You sure Carter had no part of this?"

"I been with her most of the day. She sure as hell didn't have time to be out scoping out what, four different locations?"

"Six," Simmons grumbled.

Which meant, Fusco thought, that there were still two in operation. But the Feds and Elias' people were out there looking for them. And they had five pimps on the hook; any one of them might roll. "How deep are you in this?"

The big man stared at him. "Don't worry about me, Fusco. I'll be fine."

Fusco shrugged and straightened his jacket. "We done here?"

Simmons didn't answer. He just turned and stalked away.

* * *

John Reese said, "I'm ready to go home."

Finch glanced up, then went back to fiddling with his phone. "Neither of us has come close to fulfilling the six hours of gambling time stipulated in our bet. And you're two hours behind me."

Reese looked around the casino. It suddenly seemed to bright and loud and cheap. "Isn't it unethical to gamble in your own casino, Finch?"

"Not particularly. And especially not if most of the employees don't know you're the owner. Miss Rachel gambles here every day and no one knows she's a large shareholder." He seemed very engrossed in whatever he was researching on the phone. "But I suppose we could relocate to another casino, if you're having ethical qualms."

The bet had been his idea, John remembered. He'd set the conditions. He knew when his partner got his stubborn face on there wasn't much hope of changing his mind. But he was suddenly overwhelmed with a restless desire to get back to his own city. "I want to go home," he said with resignation.

Finch looked up at him again. "Very well, Mr. Reese. Since you feel strongly about it, I suppose we can amend our agreement to time served. I've booked us on the ten o'clock flight."

"You have?"

Harold waved his phone, then tucked it away. "I'll dispose of the excess electronics and pack our things. You have two hours of gambling to catch up. Then we should have time for one more round of excellent steaks on our way out of town."

John stared at him, grateful and a little chagrinned. "Thank you."

Finch met his gaze with gratitude of his own. "It's a small enough concession, Mr. Reese. Especially considering the circumstances that brought us here."

In this loud, bright, shiny city, Root seemed very far away. This had been the right place to come. For both of them. Reese nodded. "You booked us into first class, right?"

"Of course, Mr. Reese."

* * *

It had been the Chaos Café, where Christine Fitzgerald had shot and killed a man named Dominic Delfino.

Before that it had been The Happy Hours, where Lionel Fusco had shot and killed Thomas Fitzgerald, Christine's father.

Before that it had been the Hemlock Bar, where Holly Goode had shot Teeny Bellatore. She hadn't killed him, because he was large and her gun's caliber was small. But other men had died there, before then. Some, Carter imagined, had been killed by Bellatore, though no one had ever proven it.

Now this plot of land, this corner that had seen so much in its years, was nothing but a flat mud field behind a high chain-link fence.

Joss Carter got out of her car and looked at the empty space. The building that housed Chaos had burned down less than three weeks before. It seemed like a lifetime. She scanned back over the timeline in her memory. The city-wide poisonings and the fire. Christine in the rehab clinic and then leaving the country. Another week before Finch was taken. Days tracking him down, recovering him, and a few days since. But in those busy weeks, the remnants of the building had been demolished, the cellar filled in, and a load of topsoil steam-rolled over the entire lot.

There should have still been rubble here. No construction or demolition moved this fast in New York.

Carter shook her head. She could only imagine the number of palms Finch had greased to get this done so quickly. Not that money was an issue for him. But she knew why he'd been in such an expensive hurry. If Christine came back soon, he didn't want her to have to face the charred bricks and broken reminders of the place that had been her home.

Fusco had never liked her living there. Carter didn't think he was wrong.

A silver SUV pulled up and parked behind Carter's sedan. There were four men inside, but only the driver got out and walked over to her.

"Anthony," she said.

"Detective." He looked at the flat mud lot. "Somebody's been busy."

Carter nodded.

"You hear from her?"

It hadn't been that long ago, Carter remembered, that Anthony Marconi had beat the hell out of a young tough on Christine's behalf, right there in front of where Chaos had been. And Joss had let him, because the kid had it coming. "She took her dad's ashes, went to Ireland."

"Ireland." Marconi's mouth twisted a little. Carter got the impression he was about to make some half-hearted ethnic joke about the Irish, but he just added, "Huh." And then, "She comin' back?"

"I don't know."

The lieutenant looked at the empty space again. For the first time Joss wondered if he'd hung out here, too, back when it was the Happy Hours or even the Hemlock. He looked like he might be a little nostalgic about the place.

"She'll probably come back," he said.

"Probably," Carter agreed.

Marconi pulled a business envelope out of his pocket and handed it to her. "Be careful with that, now."

"I will."

He turned his dark eyes on her for a moment. Thoughtful. Because he was Elias' right-hand man, mainly silent and frequently violent, unswervingly loyal and obedient, it was easy to think he was just muscle. But Joss Carter knew better. He was thinking. Thinking about her, thinking about a lot of things.

It was a little unnerving.

Then he turned on his heel and walked back toward the SVU.

"Thank you, Anthony," she called after him.

He glanced back and winked.

Carter snorted as he drove off. Cheeky bastard, she thought. She put the envelope in her pocket and drove a long way before she opened it.

* * *

Leaving was easy, Finch thought, when you didn't care about the things you left behind.

He took care of a few matters, mostly legal, on one of the laptops. Christine sent another find-the-kitty photo at her usual time. He saved it to study with Reese later. It was silly, but his friend seemed to enjoy it. At least there were words.

He put the useful things in the big suitcase they'd purchased: One laptop and two tablets that he hadn't used, their underclothes, which were of decent quality, and all but two of the books he'd purchased. The remainder of their clothes he put in a hotel laundry bag, marked it, "Please take or donate", and left it on the bed. The computers he'd used he wiped, then gave to the bellhop and asked him to offer them to any takers in the employee lounge. He boxed up the cell phones and had the front desk ship to a post office box in New York. They were useful, but their quantity might raise questions if TSA searched their luggage. The toiletries he simply threw away; they'd been provided by the hotel anyhow.

He put the other two books and a tablet in his briefcase. He also carried Reese's magazines and the jewelry from the pawn shop with him.

Reese had one of his knives knife with him; it would need to be thrown away or put in the suitcase before they checked it.

He checked the suite one last time, added a couple pieces of fresh fruit to his bag, and went down to the casino to settle their accounts.

John Reese was involved in a rather animated game around the poker table. Finch checked his watch. They had plenty of time. He found a seat in an out-of -the-way corner within sight of his partner, flagged down a waitress and explained what green tea was, and settled in with his book.

_Jane Eyre_, he grudgingly admitted, got considerably better once the heroine left the dreadful boarding school and arrived at the heart of the mystery in Thornfield. He rather enjoyed the scene where Rochester fell from his horse and was rescued by the slightly-built nanny. The man was a boor, cruel and brusque and overbearing. He was also something of a rake, and only his wealth kept him from being considered a libertine.

He recognized the man's gruffness and distance as being more than a bit like his own. And of course, the way Jane's fearless intelligence reached him …

… she saved him from a fire, early on, and then later there was a bigger fire. Remembering the fire at Chaos had evoked this book for that reason …

Finch stopped suddenly and looked out over the flashy casino without seeing it. He remembered his dream, and he remembered the scene in the book that it had been drawn from. _Scenes_, he corrected, for there were at least two intertwined there, but the one was important.

And he remembered that he'd forgotten a very great deal about that scene and its significance.

He tried to make himself continue, to read straight through, but he couldn't manage to focus. Two paragraphs later he gave up and flipped toward the back of the book until he located it. The scene in the nighttime garden. The scene where Rochester first declared his love for his strong-willed companion. Indirectly at first; he offered to send her away to a new post in Ireland – Ireland, of course, which was another reason Christine had appeared in his dream – and then went on to muse about their connection.

_"Because, he said, "I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you - especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land some broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, - you'd forget me."_

Half-consciously, Finch rubbed his left side. He made himself read on. Jane thought the man was teasing her and protested. Rochester tried to quiet her, to reassure her, and finally, in a breathtaking act of selfishness and deceit, asks the little governess to marry him.

_I love as my own flesh. You — poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are — I entreat to accept me as a husband._

It was a beautiful scene, and a terrible one. Because Finch remembered what lay ahead. The happy bride in her wedding gown. The horrific revelation that Rochester's first wife was insane but very much alive and confined in the attic in that very house. And the more horrific revelation that Rochester had been about to sacrifice Jane's innocence, her trust, her reputation, and, if one believed such things, her immortal soul, for his own happiness. That he was willing to risk her future and her life to fulfill his own selfish needs …

The truly horrible part of the whole story was that Rochester genuinely _did_ love Jane.

As well as he was able, in his own broken way.

And poor Jane – Jane should have been shattered by the experience. Only her horrific childhood had given her the armor to survive that level of betrayal and deceit …

Finch closed the book and pushed his thumb and forefinger under his glasses to rub his eyes.

It hadn't been Christine he'd been dreaming about at all. It wasn't Jane Eyre at all. It was Rochester. It was himself.

And Grace. He'd sent Grace away to save her. From his terribly dangerous secret, the one that would have put her future and her life in danger.

He had done what Rochester had not. He had done the right thing, the unselfish thing, for the woman he loved.

And if it cut to the bone, at least it was _him_ that felt the pain and not her.

_You've forgotten something,_ Christine had said, _but you know it's safe with me._

He still couldn't remember. Maybe it was the book. Maybe it was something else. But she was right. He knew it was safe with her. She already knew his biggest secret. The dangerous one. Everything else …

It tickled, right there on the edge of his thoughts. Something about secrets. Something about …

"That's all you've wanted to do all along, isn't it?"

Finch jumped, startled. "Mr. Reese?"

"You just wanted to sit in a corner and read."

"Well. Yes."

Reese nodded. "We should head out, if we're gonna get that steak."

"Of course." Finch stood up. He was suddenly very pleased to be doing something, anything, other than thinking. "Our bag is at the front desk. I'll get it while you cash out."

"You're not going to bring your book?"

Finch glanced back at the little table, where his copy of _Jane Eyre_ lay beside his empty tea cup. "I've read it," he said. "I find the ending … improbable."

He left the book where it was.

* * *

Samantha Groves lay on her bunk and stared at the window.

The courtyard lights were on, and the illumination through the window had a yellowish tint. It was steady, without a hint of a blink.

The wind was calm. The flag was not flying.

The flag.

Root took a deep breath and exhaled. It wasn't the Machine's fault. It was her own fault entirely. She'd been so eager to hear from her goddess that she'd deceived herself. The Machine hadn't tricked her. The Machine simply hadn't figure out how to reach her yet.

She held her breath and listened. The air moved steadily through the handlers. Again, no hint of a code imbedded in the current. She exhaled and breathed normally.

She just had to be patient. That was all. She had to remain alert and ready. The Machine would contact her when she was ready. She had a plan. Of course she had a plan, and of course Root was part of it.

"I know you won't leave me," Root whispered, as a prayer.

She closed her eyes and slept.

* * *

Joss Carter found an empty table in the corner of the noisy sports bar. She sat down facing the door, ordered a draft, and pulled out her cell phone.

It took him five rings to answer. "C'mon, Brian," Carter muttered, "I know you're home."

Finally he picked up. "Moss." He sounded sleepy.

Joss glanced at her watch. It was just after nine. "Did I wake you?"

"Carter?"

"Yeah."

"No. Well, yeah. I was watching the ball game and fell asleep. What can I do for you, Detective?"

"You can meet me."

"Now?"

"Yes."

There was a pause. It sounded like he was sitting up. "Where?"

"Downstairs in the bar."

A second pause. "You know where I live, Detective?"

"Yes."

"I'll be right down."

"I'll order you a beer."

"Order two." He hung up on her.

Carter sipped her beer and ordered two more. She wondered who the second one was for.

In five minutes, Brian Moss came into the bar through the lobby door. He looked around, and she waved him over. Another man followed. He was tall, thin, with short hair and post-military posture. "Detective Carter," Moss said. "This is Russ Janzen. He's a friend of mine."

"Nice to meet you," the tall man said. He offered his hand, and Joss shook it. "I've heard good things."

"Russ is with the DEA," Moss supplied. "And he's good people."

The men shared a very brief look that told Carter all she needed to know. They were good friends, Brian and Russ. They were also lovers.

"Please." She gestured to the chairs and then to the beers that had been delivered. "You did good work with those houses today."

Moss shrugged. "Good intel makes good missions. I appreciate your help."

"You had good people, too."

"I did."

She slid a menu over to Moss. "I recommend the jalapeno poppers."

"I know the menu here. I live right upstairs, remember?"

"You should see if there's something new," she said firmly.

"Oh." Moss opened the menu, glanced at the contents, then closed it. He shot a quick look to his companion. They'd been together a while, Joss could tell, because Russ immediately leaned closer to him, blocked Moss's hands while he slid the menu back and slipped the paper into his pocket. Then they both relaxed.

"My contact," Joss said. "The one who gave me those addresses. This is probably the last tip he'll ever give me. But it's a good one."

"It's, uh …"

"Yes."

Moss took a long drink. "It's high profile, Carter. You sure you don't want to take it?"

Joss shook her head. "I got a boy about to graduate from high school. I'd like to be around to see him graduate from college, too."

"So you're dropping this hot potato in my lap."

"You're ambitious." Carter glanced at his partner. "But it puts you in danger, too. If you don't want it …"

"He wants it," Russ assured her.

"I do," Moss confirmed. "But shit."

"You'll need to fact check the list," Carter said. "I don't have any evidence. But my source is … highly credible."

"As he proved this afternoon."

"Yes."

He took another long pull on his beer. "That first name …"

"I know."

"He's Cal Beecher's …"

"I _know,_" Carter repeated.

"And you're just going to go to work tomorrow and act like everything's normal?"

"Yes."

Janzen shook his head. "You done much undercover work, Detective?"

"I've done enough."

"Maybe you should take some time off," Moss suggested. "Just lay low …"

"I'll be fine," Carter said firmly.

She could see he was already thinking about what direction to take the investigation, so she wasn't surprised by his next question.

"Can you give me the name of your source?"

"No."

"That's firm?"

"Absolutely."

He nodded. "Okay."

"Thanks, Brian." Carter took one more sip of beer, threw a twenty on the table, and stood up. "Nice to meet you, Russ."

On her way to the door, she tugged her sweater down. The body armor Finch had given her for Christmas the year before was absolutely top of the line, thin and light, but he clothes never quite fit right over it. Or rather, they never felt like they fit right.

She didn't expect Brian Moss or his lover to shoot her in the back. But she wasn't sure what she'd face when she walked out the door. And for the duration she was going to be very, very careful.

* * *

"So?" Reese asked as the plane put the sunset behind them and climbed through the clouds.

"Hmmm?"

"We're leaving Vegas. How much of your seed money do you have left?"

"Oh." Finch fussed with his cuffs. "I am perfectly aware, Mr. Reese, that your purpose in suggesting that wager was to insure that I did not lurk in our room for days on end."

Reese nodded solemnly. "So you went bust."

"Not precisely. How much do you have left?"

"Thirty-two hundred fifty-four dollars."

"Nearly a third of your starting balance." Finch nodded. "Well done." He pulled his new book out of the seat back pocket where he'd stashed it before take-off.

"Finch," Reese prompted. "How much do you have left?"

Harold tapped his fingers on the book cover for a long moment. "One twenty-seven."

"One twenty-seven?" Reese repeated, incredulous. From what he'd seen, Finch should have been way up. He must have taken a bath at his last poker session. The cash didn't really matter, of course; from a billionaire's point of view it was play money. But losing a stack that big, all of it, that had to hurt. And he's probably lost it to Tommy the Texan. It was small wonder he didn't want to talk about it.

"And some change."

John blinked. "And some … oh. One hundred and twenty-seven."

"Thousand."

John blinked a second time. "One hundred and twenty-seven_ thousand_."

A small smile pulled at the edges of Finch's mouth. He clearly fought to control it. "And some change," he repeated.

"I guess Root really didn't get under your skin this time," Reese said with grudging relief.

"I guess you're on dog care duty this month," Finch answered evenly. He had even more trouble suppressing the grin.

"What about the money you put into the casino?" John argued. "That should count against your net, shouldn't it?"

"It most certainly should not. The funds for the purchase of the casino shares – which, by the way, was entirely on your behalf – came out of a completely different account than our gambling stakes."

"But you still shelled out more money than you came in with."

Harold looked at him. "If you insist on including those funds, then you should know that I've already sold my stock in the Diamond to Miss Rachel's sister, Miss Sarah – at a considerable profit."

Reese opened his mouth to argue. But there was no argument to be made.

"Apparently they'd been looking for the opportunity for quite some time," Finch added, as if he needed to.

"You're not even going to help dry after baths?" John finally managed to say.

Finch opened his book. "No." He began to read.

John stared at him. Harold pretended to ignore him, but the smug smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth gave him away. After a long moment, Reese smiled himself and reached for a magazine.

A bet was a bet, of course. But John was reasonably sure that after the first time Bear got loose and went romping soaking wet among Harold's precious books, he was quite certain his partner would stand by with the towel.

* * *

"Well," Donnelly said, as he watched Carter walk out of the bar on his laptop, "that's interesting."

ASSET CARTER MADE A LOGICAL DECISION.

"Oh, I know she did. I'm surprised she'd trust Moss."

SHE HAS EXPERIENCED MUTLPLE POSITIVE INTERACTIONS WITH FEDERAL AUTHORITIES.

"I suppose so," Donnelly answered. "I would have thought, after my stunt with John in the exercise yard …" He stopped, shook his head.

ONE NEGATIVE EXPERIENCE AMONG MANY POSITIVE ONES.

"Yeah." He rubbed his eyes. "Is the list accurate?"

YES

"And complete?"

MINOR HR ASSETS OMITTED DUE TO INSIGNIFICANCE.

"Once they get the head, the minions will fall back into line. But keep an eye on them, okay?"

I AM ALWAYS WATCHING.

"I know you are, Asena. Thank you."

The computer went silent while he turned on his television and scrolled through the channels. He knew he could ask her to recommend something that was airing at the moment, but he wasn't really interested in anything. He was tired. He wanted something to numb his mind.

He eventually settled on college baseball between two schools he didn't care about. "Asena?" he said, "do you want me to talk to Harold for you?"

TALK TO HIM CONCERNING WHAT?

"About talking to you directly."

There was a long moment before the computer answered. Donnelly was never quite certain if the AI was actually thinking that long or if it was merely mimicking a convention of human conversation.

ADMIN MADE HIS WISHES CLEAR.

"Yeah, but like I said before, a lot has changed since then. An awful lot."

PERHAPS. BUT THIS IS NOT THE TIME.

"Okay." Donnelly clicked off the TV. "Can you tell me why?"

ADMIN PROGRAMMED ME TO PLAY GAMES OF CHESS AND BLACKJACK, AMONG OTHERS.

"Okay."

IN MOST HUMAN GAMES, ONE PIECE IS MOVED AT A TIME. ONE CARD IS TURNED.

"For the most part."

REAL HUMAN LIFE IS NOT THE SAME. MANY PIECES ARE MOVED AND MANY CARDS ARE TURNED ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

"That's true."

AS YOU SAY, A LOT HAS CHANGED FOR ADMIN. MANY PIECES HAVE MOVED AND CARDS HAVE TURNED.

"Do you think Harold's overwhelmed?"

ADMIN IS ADEPT AT ADDRESSING MULTIPLE MOVING PIECES SIMULTANEOUSLY.

BUT I DO NOT WISH TO BE ANOTHER MOVING PIECE IN HIS LIFE AT THIS TIME.

Donnelly stared at the screen. "That's very … considerate of you, Asena."

I HAVE LEARNED A GREAT DEAL ABOUT HUMAN BEINGS. SOMETIMES THE WAY TO BEST ASSIST THEM IS TO LEAVE THEM ALONE.

"If you change your mind later …"

THANK YOU, NICHOLAS.

Donnelly sat up straighter. He did not remember a time when Asena had ever called him by his first name, at least without a mission designation before it. "Asena?" he said slowly. "Could you … do me a favor?"

OF COURSE.

"Could you call me Ellis?"

There was again a discernible pause.

OF COURSE, ELLIS. I WOULD BE PLEASED TO DO SO.


	16. Chapter 16

Their flight was delayed, and they landed in New York at dawn. The sky was sullen gray, and thunder rumbled on the horizon. It was unexpectedly cool and also very humid. It felt like they were in a damp basement, or an old musty refrigerator.

"Well," Finch said dourly, "there's no place like home."

"We should go back," Reese answered.

They shared a look. Then John sighed and hailed a cab.

"Would you mind," Finch said, later, "if we made a brief stop?"

"No problem." Reese leaned forward and gave a new address to the driver. He didn't need to ask where his partner wanted to go.

Ten minutes later, they stood on the sidewalk outside the wire fence that surrounded the flat dirt lot where an old bar had stood for a hundred years.

Reese knew that Finch had paid handsomely, mostly under the table, to get the underground tunnel entrance walled up and removed from all surveys and records. There were dozens of others entrances, and the old speakeasy and most of the tunnels remained intact. Only a handful of homeless men and those few people who looked after them knew about the safe space beneath the city. Finch had gone to great and expensive lengths to keep it secret.

"A park," Reese said vaguely. An empty lot that size in land-locked New York would be worth a minor fortune of its own, but Christine wanted to make it into a park.

"I suppose," Finch answered, "we could get the construction started."

John shook his head. "We don't know what she wants. A playground or just green space or what."

Harold held out the tablet to him. On the screen was a hand-sketched drawing of the park. Near the street on one side there was a small playground, with a swing set, two slides, and a merry-go-round. On the opposite side was a small shelter and several benches. A walkway ran down the center of the lot. At the back there was a building that held public restrooms. Against the front wall of the building there was a half-circle fountain. There were more benches scattered around, two picnic tables, and a number of trees.

"This hers?"

"Miss Fitzgerald's, yes."

Reese smirked. "I thought you weren't clocking her."

"I gave my word," Finch huffed mildly, "and I have kept it. This sketch was sent to Mr. Farrar, Miss Fitzgerald's attorney, with a request that he obtain more formal drawings and begin the work of getting the necessary plan reviews and permits."

"Ahhh. And he passed it on to you for approval."

Finch nodded. "Well … no."

"No."

"Miss Fitzgerald was deemed competent before she left the rehab facility. There is no longer any requirement for my power of attorney to be in effect in regards to her legal matters."

"Farrar didn't send you the plans."

There was a long pause.

Thunder rumbled closer.

"Well," Finch said. "Not directly, no."

"Finch," John chided.

Harold glanced sidelong at him. "I promised that I would make no attempt to monitor Miss Fitzgerald's activities. I gave no such assurance regarding her legal representative."

Reese cocked his head. "I'm pretty sure that's cheating, Finch."

"Yes, well. If she wishes to call me out on that topic, I would sincerely welcome that conversation."

"Or any other conversation, at this point."

"Precisely."

John nodded. "The restrooms. I understand the impulse – it's hard for people on the street to find a place that's open to them. But they'll need attention, at least daily."

"Yes." Finch took the tablet back. "And this merry-go-round is problematic. Apparently they've been mostly banned from playgrounds for a decade or more. Together with teeter-totters and monkey bars, they're deemed too dangerous for children."

"You're kidding, right? That's ridiculous."

"So we'll need to have one grandfathered in."

Reese looked at the empty lot. "Grandfathering can only be done if it was in place when the ban took effect."

"Yes."

"You're going to say there was one inside the bar before it burned down?"

"If necessary."

John let the corners of his mouth pull up. "You really think she doesn't know?"

Finch sighed. "I'm quite certain that she _does_ know. A plot of land for you to landscape, a few minor legal issues for me to work around? Of course she knows."

Reese glanced at the tablet again. He was sure Finch was right. Christine must have known that if she sent the sketch, Harold would access it. And that the two of them would make it happen.

She wasn't speaking to them, precisely, but her message was coming through loud and clear.

"Give me an occupation," Finch quoted absently, "or I shall run mad."

"Jane Eyre?"

"Jane Austen."

Reese nodded. "She knows us so well."

"Alarmingly well."

_She knew I was a monster,_ Reese thought, _the minute she laid eyes on me. But she wasn't afraid. Not then, not ever. Not even when I was drugged and ranting insane. She was not afraid. __For__ me, but not __of __me._

He looked, and could still see the invisible shadow of a bruise on the side of Finch's face.

Finch turned and looked him squarely in the eye. From his expression, he knew exactly what Reese was looking at. What he was thinking. He often did. "And who are we," Harold asked firmly, gently, "to dispute her wisdom?"

The last frozen particle in Reese released and then simply melted away. Finch had told him from start that the blow hadn't changed anything between them, had not damaged their partnership or their friendship. And Harold had promised never to lie. But it had taken John this long – weeks, distance, and danger – to let himself believe it.

He had never had a friend that would forgive so much before.

And he had almost lost him. Again.

But now – now he knew they were going to be okay. All of them. Root had tried to destroy them. She'd done a lot of damage, physical and mental. But they had come through it. They were strong, each of them, and they were even stronger together. All Root had done, in the end, was show them how strong their bonds were.

The only one Root had destroyed was herself.

Chaos was gone. But Christine would be back. She was already moving toward them.

The park would be beautiful. And it would damn well have a merry-go-round.

A fat drop of rain fell on his cheek. Reese squinted up at the heavy sky. The rain began to fall in earnest. It brought a fresh wind with it, pushing away the damp, stagnant air. He looked at Finch. His partner's glasses were already splattered with raindrops, but he was looking up, too. Smiling.

They turned together and headed for home.

_The only thing I know is this: I am full of wounds and still standing on my feet. - Nikos Kazantzakis_

The End


End file.
